


Heart of Darkness

by fateofawakening



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Analysis, Insecurities, Internal, M/M, Music, Piano, Yuri's POV, actually a lot of swearing, basically ap lit all over again, mild swearing bc yuri, someone suggest tags, what do i put now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fateofawakening/pseuds/fateofawakening
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky is a failure.He can't talk to people, and he can't make friends, and he's forever alone. He can't do Yuuri's beautiful piano playing justice, but he has to, somehow, but he can't. All he's ever wanted is to make the most important people in his life proud, but he can't.What a failure.***In other words, Yuri's anger issues, violent fits, and isolation - explained. Yuri acts tough and proud, but he's breaking inside, he hates himself, and he doesn't know how to climb out of this identity crisis - of his heart of darkness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I thought that there are a ton of fics (really amazing ones too) exploring Yuuri's internal struggles and Victor's as well, giving them adequate explanation for why they behave the way they do. I thought I'd try to combine my love for music with the idea that maybe Yuri hates himself a lot more than we think he does - like a lot of teenagers (I'm one myself!).  
> anyway, not sure how this is going to go, but hope you enjoy!

 

                  Yuri Plisetsky was once told that music is the universal language of the soul.

                  It was a shame that his soul seemed to be a bit rusty on the mechanics of the language.

                  “Are you deaf?” barked Yakov, from the side of the rink, arms crossed and anger level 6. “This is the sixth time, Yuri. How do you expect to walk onto the world stage when you can’t even count the music correctly?”

                  _You don’t_ count _music,_ Yuri thought irritably, folding his arms and turning away as Yakov paused the music once again. “It’s not my fault this music sucks,” he spat, causing the older man to roll his eyes. “If you could find any music less shitty than this, I’d be beating Victor out of the rink.”

                  “Now, now, Yuri,” said Victor placidly, smiling, trying to be every mother’s picture of innocence, “have some patience – “

                  “I’m a figure skater, not a fucking musician!” Yuri glared at Victor, his self-proclaimed “older brother,” the biggest nuisance in his life. Victor did not falter, but perhaps that was because it had been plastic to begin with.

                  “I’ll give you a week to find your own music, then,” Yakov conceded, sighing and mumbling something about _why are all my students such a pain_ and pressing a palm to his wrinkled forehead. “If you can find something _similar enough_ so that we don’t have to change _all_ the choreography, then I’ll approve it.”

                  Yuri snorted, secretly glad. “Nice to know you still have some sense, old man.”

                  Practice ended not long after that, meaning that Yuri had to put up with Victor’s insufferable chattering as they fetched their things from the locker room and changed into street shoes. Publicly, Yuri was up to _there_ with Victor. Privately, he was somewhat glad to have a “brother” in St. Petersburg, still a huge and foreign city despite having moved there years ago.

                  “ – but what are you going to do for music? Yuri? Yuuuuuri?”

                  Yuri batted at Victor’s outstretched hand, taking out his phone simultaneously. “Fuck off, I have this figured out.”

                  Victor blinked. “Really? I didn’t think, you know, _lyrical_ music was your... thing.”

                  “It’s not,” Yuri grumbled, opening up his text messages. Without offering any further explanation to the still-hovering nuisance, he began to type as they stepped out into the cold.

**[18:23] Yuri: I need a piece for FS**

**[18:24] Yuri: hurry up**

**[18:24] Yuri: yakov’s trying to make me skate to fckin swan lake or something just as awful**

                  The streets were still busy and just a bit chilly, and he and Victor navigated their way through the masses of people trying to get home from work. Yuri, briefly, considered buying a hot _pirohzki_ to eat on the way to the bus station, but was dissuaded by the long line of people waiting to do the same thing.

                  His phone vibrated.

**[16:28] Katsudon: Um, what exactly did you want me to do? What kind of piece are you thinking?**

**[16:29] Katsudon: Also, isn’t it a little bit late to be looking for program pieces? It’s already June.**

                  “Oh wow, you have friends!” said Victor excitedly, making Yuri want to punch him in the face. He settled for a swift kick to the shin – more easily disguised, faster, less likely to earn a scolding from Yakov, etc. He typed his reply.

**[16:30] Yuri: whatever. something “pretty”**

**[16:30] Yuri: aka boring**

**[16:31] Yuri: aka right up ur alley**

**[16:32] Katsudon: Haha, Yura, your request makes a lot more sense now. I can send you links to some classical pieces, if you’d like. I’m going to bed soon because I have classes in the morning, but I’ll search for some stuff you might like.**

                  Yuri scanned his preloaded bus pass when prompted and meandered over to an empty seat behind Victor, still preoccupied with his phone.

**[16:24] Yuri: yeah, awesome, great, I love classical music, fuck yakov**

**[16:25] Katsudon: Yura.**

**[16:25] Katsudon: Yakov seems like a great guy.**

**[16:25] Katsudon: He must be, for putting up with you.**

                  Yuri sniffed in distaste, causing Victor to glance over curiously.

**[16:26] Katsudon: Give me a few minutes. I’ll send stuff.**

                  “So your plan was basically to hound someone else for music requests, instead of coming up with it on your own,” Victor concluded, earning himself a sharp glare. “Who’s the unlucky guy? A friend from school?”

                  “Fuck off,” said Yuri, again, ignoring his phone when it buzzed again and a YouTube link popped up on the screen. He would go through them later. Yakov’s demand for him to find a suitable piece in a week’s time wouldn’t be so hard, after all. Probably.

                  “’Katsudon’?” Victor tried, clearly reading off of Yuri’s phone screen. Yuri pocketed said device with a scowl. “What kind of a name is that?”

                  “Food,” Yuri mumbled.

                  “What?”

                  “It’s a food,” Yuri repeated himself, louder this time so that Victor could hear him over the low rumble of the bus. “Japanese food.”

                  “Yura,” said Victor, smiling, “that doesn’t answer my question at all.”

                  “Does it look like I care?” Yuri stood up as the bus began to pull over to the curb. “He’s too good for an old man like you, anyway. Bye.”

                  His tiny apartment was lonely and entirely paid for by sponsorships (“ _That’s_ why you have to act nicer on-screen, you idiot!” Yakov had lectured him more than once), and he threw his skating bag carelessly onto the floor. After ordering take-out (pizza and _pirozhki,_ because he could), he grabbed his laptop and settled in for a long evening of the worst genre of music possible.

                  “It’s all awful,” he declared to a literally dripping Yuuri Katsuki the next evening, who’d just taken a shower after an early afternoon workout and was now Skyping him from wherever the heck Juilliard was. Some state in the U.S. “How do you put up with this boring shit?”

                  “Yura,” said Yuuri, patiently, “it’s not _boring._ I understand if it’s not your style. Why’s Yakov making you skate to something you clearly dislike?”

                  “Something about it being good for the sponsorships,” Yuri admitted, trying to pass it off carelessly, as though a 14-year-old could easily live alone without any serious concern over monetary issues. Yuuri clearly wasn’t buying his act, but said nothing. “You got anything better? You’d _better_ have something better.”

                  Yuuri sighed. “I’ve literally sent you links to just about everything, Yura. I thought you liked piano music, at least.”

                  Yuri cringed at the embarrassing memory. “That was when _you_ were playing. You’re not boring. These other people are. Do you _see_ this guy? What’s with the constipated expression?”

                  Despite his serious classical music background, Yuuri chuckled. “It’s called _concentration,_ something you seem to be lacking at the moment. Anyway, I’m flattered, but it would be really embarrassing for me to try to record something for you.”

                  “ _I’m_ the one skating to it.”

                  “Yes, but I don’t want my lackluster recording blasting in a stadium full of people and being broadcasted on international television.” Yuuri rested a cheek on his palm. His hair was still dripping, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Suddenly, inexplicably, Yuri felt a little guilty. “I’ll keep trying, okay? Oh, here's the New World Symphony...”

                  “I told you already,” Yuri said, rolling his eyes, “I want something _you_ play. Who cares if it’s bad? I’ll just skate so fucking beautifully that they’ll like it anyway.”

                  “You really need to watch your language,” Yuuri reprimanded him gently.

                  “Yeah, well, _you_ need to...” Yuri scrambled for something. “... uh, get your shit together. Nobody can even tell if you’re good or not. We’re skaters. Victor can’t tell a violin from a fucking tuba.”

                  Despite his overuse of profanity, Yuuri smiled. “Victor again? Your brother?”

                  “He’s _not_ my brother.” Yuri rolled his eyes. “He’s like the annoying uncle at New Year’s that won’t fucking _leave you alone_ and insists on playing games with you like some _child_ – some overgrown, ugly-ass, balding toddler.”

                  He was rewarded with Yuuri’s widening smile. “Sounds like he cares for you a lot,” Yuuri concluded, and Yuri pretended to be disgusted. “Fine. If I can get something decent by the end of the week, I’ll send you a sample. You said four minutes, right?”

                  “Yeah.” Yuri leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his blond locks. “Give or take a few seconds.”

                  “Okay,” said Yuuri, a determined look crossing his face that Yuri was honestly happy to see. “I’ll get back to you. This is your last year in the Juniors’ division, right?”

                  “Yeah, thank _God_.” Yuri rolled his eyes. “Can you believe Yakov still won’t let me do a single quad? I _mastered_ the quad _salchow two years ago, dammit!_ ”

                  “You’re still young,” Yuuri said patiently, before adding, “and don’t roll your eyes at me again. They’ll get stuck that way.”

                  “Bull,” Yuri muttered, settling for glaring at the screen. “Yeah, record some piece, I don’t give a shit, you shouldn’t give a shit either, the world won’t give a shit once I skate to it.”

                  “Language, Yura. I’ll do my best. Good night. Don’t eat too many snacks, or Yakov’ll be yelling at you again tomorrow.”

                  “He can fuck right off,” Yuri mumbled, earning himself a Look. “Yeah, yeah, good night.”

                  There was something strangely calming, strangely _cathartic_ about talking to Yuuri Katsuki. He was Yuri’s one and only childhood friend, if running up to a stranger playing piano on the street could be called the beginning of a friendship. Nevertheless, Yuuri had entertained him (for what reason, Yuri still didn’t know) and later agreed to be his pen pal when he returned to Japan.

                  And thus began a long and twisted journey, given Yuuri’s insecurities and Yuri’s offhanded insults – not often directed at Yuuri but still earning him a mini lecture from the older man. Yuuri Katsuki was too kind for his own good. Yuri Plisetsky was sharp, prickly, all edges, and unapproachable.

                  _“If you could change yourself, you would’ve done it ages ago,”_ Yuuri wrote to him in a letter, once, when he’d first confessed his own insecurities. _“It’s really hard to change yourself. I understand.”_

Yuri slept to the distant hum of traffic, of people on the move, heading for a different horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch 1 is kinda short cuz i didn't divide up the chaps when i first started writing :/ oh well, sorry


	2. Chapter 2

                  Yuri waited patiently (if snapping at anyone who dared to bring up the subject or consistently spamming Yuuri with texts counted as “patiently”) for Yuuri’s decision and recording. If Yuuri couldn’t do it, Yuri would be stuck with the God-awful piece of classical crap that Yakov had picked out to try to make him more “graceful,” “calm,” and “methodical.”

                  If anything, it had backfired, so far; it made him see red when he fell on the ice for the fifth time in an hour because he was so damn sick of the music and therefore had tuned it out completely.

                  Smiling Victor was normal, but _Smiling_ Victor was a shark hidden behind the rosy disguise of a dolphin. Or a sheep. Or a butterfly. _Smiling_ Victor greeted Yuri a few days later, a dangerous glint in his blue eyes, and Yuri prepared to be subjected to whatever terrors his self-proclaimed brother was about to inflict upon him.

                  “Yura,” _Smiling_ Victor drawled, “are you really going to have music ready? Yakov’s getting kinda mad.”

                  “ _I’m_ getting kind of mad,” Yuri shot right back, stuffing his skates into his bag and zipping it up. He shouldered it and breezed past Victor, who followed him out of the locker room. “Stupid Katsudon. By the time he realizes he’s actually fucking _good,_ you’ll _actually_ be an old man with a shiny head.” He paused. “Oh, wait, you already are.”

                  “Yu- _ra_ ,” whined Victor, who was promptly ignored by said blonde. Yakov yelled after them to _be at practice on time for once tomorrow_ as they left the rink. “I am _not_ going bald. And I’m only twenty-six!”

                  Yuri ignored him in favor of his cell phone, where there was a new text waiting for him.

**[14:34] Katsudon: Okay, I just emailed you three samples. If you like one of them, I’ll redo it and make it better.**

**[16:04] Yuri: just finished practice**

**[16:04] Yuri: I’ll listen to them in a sec**

**[16:05] Yuri: yakov keeps yelling at me but its not my fault the music sucks ass**

                  “Yura, you’re ignoring me,” Victor was whining. “Come on, go to dinner with me.”

                  “Can’t,” said Yuri, digging around for his earbuds as he successfully found the email Yuuri had sent. “I have important things to do.”

                  “Really?” Victor’s interest was piqued. “Does it have to do with your friend? And the music?”

                  “Mind your own business,” Yuri sneered, plugging his black earbuds into his phone and tapping the first attachment. As they got onto the bus, Yuri tuned Victor out in favor of the (labeled) recordings Yuuri had emailed him.

                  The first one was okay, but _really fucking boring._ The second was a little better – a bit faster, with more notes and variations thrown in. The third was actually _cool._ It was _hard._ It was a bunch of voices and melodies overlapping and coming together in a way that Yuri could actually envision himself performing to.

                  “I thought you hated classical music,” said Victor, when Yuri pulled out an earbud and caught himself smiling.

                  “I do,” grumbled Yuri, going back to his texts ( **[16:07] Katsudon: Yura, it’s probably not even that bad** ). Fuck him and his logical rationale; it _was_ that bad, and Yuuri knew it. Probably.

**[16:13] Yuri: the third one, whatever it is**

**[16:14] Yuri: its kinda cool**

**[16:14] Yuri: need to know what its called and when I can give yakov the actual recording to send in**

**[16:15] Katsudon: Oh, I’m glad you liked one of them, but did you have to choose the hardest one? >:(**

**[16:16] Katsudon: It’s a section from Chopin’s Ballade No. 4, but I wasn’t sure whether you should use it since I cut off before the coda section.**

                  Yuri had absolutely no fucking clue what any of that was supposed to mean, and told Yuuri as much ( **[16:17] Yuri: the fuck does that even mean** ). Victor, peering over his shoulder, let out a sound that let Yuri knew the older man was amused.

**[16:18] Katsudon: Basically, I didn’t finish the piece. You can tell that it sounds kind of unfinished. Is that okay? :/**

                  “You can pretend it’s your theme,” Victor suggested, and Yuri didn’t even bother telling him off for reading his texts. “You know, something dramatic – like _my theme for this year is ‘unfinished’_ or _I’m purposely leaving my Free Skate unfinished to symbolize my everlasting love for the ice._ ”

                  “That’s stupid,” said Yuri bluntly, but neither of them had any better ideas, so he settled for telling Yuuri that it was fine and that whoever didn’t like it could shove their own foot up their own ass. Yuuri wasn’t particularly happy about how he’d worded that ( **[16:23] Katsudon: Violence is bad, Yura, how many times do I have to tell you?** ), but there were no further qualms about whether or not the piece would do.

                  It was kind of a violent piece and a little bit stormy, but it fit Yakov’s requirements, more or less – it was just lyrical enough to match the choreography and theme, despite the quick flurries of notes as the music delved into deeper, more complicated, more _frustrated_ depths. As far as a classical piece went, Yuri liked it. At least it wasn’t fucking boring.

                  Yakov gave him a Look when he played the sample for him, but approved it anyway, and they got going on revising the choreography. A few days later, Yuuri sent over the official recording, along with a lot of apologies about how much it probably sucked and how he should just scrap the entire idea and pretend it had never happened. Yuri told him he was stupid, and meant it.

                  The next week or so flew by. Every evening, Yuri dragged himself back to his apartment, bruises everywhere and new ones surely to come the next day. His muscles ached like never before. His knees were starting to hurt a little bit – something fairly common around his age, but a bad sign nonetheless. It wouldn’t be long until his ankles started giving way, too.

                  “Yura, you’re beating yourself up,” said Victor thoughtfully one afternoon, during their shared water break as Yakov went to go yell at Georgi for messing up his sit spin _again._ He was probably too distracted by the thought of his _girlfriend_ , thought Yuri irritably. “I’ve never seen you work so hard on a program before.”

                  “Fuck off,” said Yuri, not really meaning it. He downed another mouthful of water before putting the bottle down and bending down to re-tie his skates.

                  “ _Yura._ ”

                  Yuri froze. Victor’s tone was icy, a far cry from his usual warm greeting and annoying, persistent whining. It was strangely befitting of an “Ice Prince” like him, but it was _really fucking scary_ coming from the real life Victor Nikiforov, whose eyes were always shining and whose heart-shaped smile could fool any reporter.

                  “Yura, you’re still growing. Even if you weren’t, this sort of thing isn’t healthy. You won’t last as an ice skater if you continue to mistreat your body.”

                  “Yeah, I know,” said Yuri, tying the other skate now and doing a spectacular job of avoiding Victor’s insistent gaze. “Focus on your own program, old man, and I’ll focus on mine.”

                  Knowing that Yuri at least understood the precarious position he was in, Victor conceded for the moment. “Fine. But stop beating yourself up, or I’ll tell on you.”

                  Yuri wasn’t worried. He took another swig from his water bottle. “Oh yeah? To who?”

                  There was a dangerous smirk on Victor’s face. “ _Katsudon.”_

Yuri promptly spat his mouthful of water all over Victor’s torso, earning himself several disapproving looks and a yelp from the silver-haired man. “What the fuck,” said Yuri flatly, standing up in preparation to return to the ice. “You stay out of my business! Stay _away_ from Katsudon!”

                  _And here we have Yuri Plisetsky, taking the ice once again, and – wow, that’s a fantastic way to resume practice! What a jump!_

_Plisetsky’s been by far the hardest worker in the group today, don’t you agree?_

_I certainly do. He’s pushed himself even farther than I had previously expected, that’s for sure. I wonder what his motivation is? After all, he’s a clear favorite to win the Junior Grand Prix._

_Indeed he is! Perhaps he’s thirsty to defend his three-year title, or to catch up to fellow rinkmate Victor Nikiforov. It would certainly make sense, considering that Nikiforov has publicly announced their close relationship._

_A fantastic combination from Plisetsky just now. On the other side of the rink, we have Nikiforov..._

                  “This is bullshit,” announced Yuri, rolling his eyes so far that he wondered if they really _would_ get stuck. Sitting calmly on the couch beside him, Victor’s only response was to shrug and swallow another mouthful of chow mein so fast that Yuri seriously worried for his health. Indigestion was a _thing._ “I’m going to beat you when I move up to the senior division, anyway.”

                  “I’m sure you will,” said Victor mildly, in that _really fucking irritating tone that suggested he didn’t give a shit._ Yuri was about to bite back when Victor added, “So what _is_ your motivation, then? Showing off for your girlfriend?”

                  “I don’t have a _girlfriend_ ,” Yuri sneered, shuddering at the thought of becoming like Georgi.

                  “Boyfriend?”

                  “ _No!_ Fuck off!”

                  “Katsudon?”

                  “He’s not my _boyfriend,”_ said Yuri, disgusted at the thought. “First of all, he’s like, _way_ too old for me. And he likes _classical music.”_

Victor looked somewhat amused. “So?”

                  “So it’s not _like_ that.” Yuri seriously contemplated the consequences of dumping Victor out of his own apartment window. Yuuri would _kill_ him if he ever found out. “He’s an old friend. Or whatever.”

                  “So you’re working extra hard to do his piano playing justice,” Victor concluded, and Yuri fought to come up with an appropriate response, but found none. This was answer enough for the older man, who raised one eyebrow. “I thought so. I don’t think he’d be very happy to find out what you’ve been doing, though.”

                  As if on cue, Yuri’s phone rang with a new Skype call. He answered it, a little bit warily, wondering if Victor and Yuuri had telepathic powers. “Hi, Katsudon.”

                  “ _Yura!”_ Yuuri scolded immediately, and Yuri scowled as Victor had to visibly stop himself from laughing. “I just saw the news. What was _that_?”

                  “It’s all bull,” Yuri declared, eyebrows furrowed. Yuuri was dripping again, so he’d probably just come back from the gym. “They’re being fucking overdramatic.”

                  “Look, Yura,” said Yuuri, and Yuri knew what was coming and really wished Victor wasn’t here, “I appreciate that you’re trying your best to skate to my crappy recording, but I wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard. It’s really not worth it. I’ll... I’ll find something better, if it’s not working, or I can ask someone to compose – “

                  “Shut _up_ ,” Yuri snapped, and the Japanese man fell silent. “The recording’s _fine._ Chill the _hell_ out.”

                  On the other side, Yuuri was silent. Victor, taking advantage of the momentary silence, said in Russian, “ _That’s no way to talk to your friends, Yura. I’m amazed he’s stuck around you for so long.”_

Yuri wanted to tell him that talking in Russian was a mistake, but he was too late. _“Tell me about it,”_ said Yuuri, in perfect Russian, causing Victor’s jaw to drop and Yuri to roll his eyes. “ _Yuri, thank you for your faith in me. But have some faith in yourself. You’ll do fine. You don’t have to push yourself so hard – not right now, okay? You’re the most talented and hard-working person I know.”_

 _“Are we all speaking in Russian now?”_ said Yuri, stalling for time to come up with something to say. Yuuri chuckled in response. _“Yeah, okay, fine. Whatever. Just stop saying shit like how awful you are or whatever. It’s fucking annoying.”_

 _“What Yura_ means _to say,”_ said Victor, _“is that he really appreciates your support and I do too!”_ Victor leaned in close so that Yuuri could see him too, and Yuri immediately saw the pale flush that spread across the Japanese man’s cheeks. Ugh.

                  _“Well, thank you, Victor Nikiforov,”_ said Yuuri, after a little pause. Victor’s eyes lit up when Yuuri mentioned his name, probably coming to the (correct) conclusion that Yuri had talked about him before. Yuuri switched back to English without a hitch. “Should I say good night now, Yura? Or are you going to be up for a bit longer?”

                  “Whatever,” Yuri muttered. “Good night, I guess. Bye. Practice until your fingers fall off.”

                  Yuuri gave him a light-hearted chuckle. “Yeah, I’ll do that. Good night, Yura. Good night, Victor Nikiforov.”

                  “Just Victor!” said Victor quickly, as Yuri moved his phone away. “Good night, Katsudon! Nice to finally see you!”

                  “Good _night_ ,” said Yuri, with finality, and hung up the call. The rest of the evening was spent making hot chocolate and avoiding Victor’s questions. Yuuri was a private person. Victor was invasive. There was no way Yuri was letting Victor loose – _no way in hell._ Victor would shatter Katsudon in some way or another, and then it’d be too late even if Yuri unleashed hell’s rage upon him.

                  The next morning found Yuri and Victor on the ice as usual, warming up with the other Russian skaters as Yakov sipped his coffee on the side. It was group training day (the worst day, in Yuri’s very correct and important opinion), which meant that they would all perform parts of their programs and receive critique from the others. Yakov would give his own opinion as well, of course, but for once, he allowed debate from his students. Unsurprisingly, it was Victor who spoke up most often.

                  “What’s the order for today, little Yura?” asked Mila, coming up from behind him and resting an arm casually on his head. Yuri ducked away and glared.

                  “I told you to stop _doing_ that, you hag!”

                  Mila showed him her pearly white teeth as Yakov clapped his hands together. “Listen up! Today’s schedule is – _Vitya,_ will you please _stop_ showing off and listen for once?”

                  Victor’s smile somehow shone even brighter than Mila’s. They were both terribly fake, and Yuri rolled his eyes.

                  “ _As I was saying,”_ said Yakov sharply, before anybody else could start acting up, “Georgi, you’re first, followed by Mila, Victor, and Yuri.”

                  “Me _first_?” asked Georgi dramatically, hands over his heart. “But, Coach Yakov, you must understand that I – “

                  “Oh, get on with it,” snapped Yakov irritably, looking as though he was about to pull out some _more_ of his nonexistent hair. Georgi, looking wounded, skated away to position himself in the center of the ice as Yuri and the others put on their skate guards and sat on the bench to watch.

                  Georgi’s short program skate was set to some dramatic shit that made Yuri want to bleach his mind afterward, but his skating itself wasn’t all that bad – not to mention that he had some fairly impressive quads, Yuri had to admit. But then again, if only Yakov would _let_ him do quads...

                  They all clapped politely at the end. Yakov stood up and started talking about Georgi’s form on the something in his program or whatever. Yuri mostly tuned it out. There was something about too much emotion getting to his mind.

                  Mila went next, and her program was careful. Really careful. Yuri noticed, because Mila was generally a balanced person and somehow her program showed that. But it was missing that dramatic flare that Georgi had, and it was missing the element of surprise that always showed up in Victor’s programs, and, well, it was certainly missing the rage Yuri always seemed to possess. Yuri liked Mila’s program, but it was _too_ careful.

                  He told her as much, when Yakov opened up the floor for group discussion. “It’s fine, but it’s boring,” he said dismissively, not noticing when Georgi frowned at the harsh comment. Mila seemed to understand and just smiled and thanked him. He was suddenly hit by a wave of doubt, though, remembering how much he hated criticism himself.

                  Victor was a lot nicer about it. “I think Yura has a point,” he said cheerfully. “It’s really good! I just think you need an element of surprise!”

                  “I’ll work on it,” said Mila, giving him a thumbs-up and smiling as she locked eyes with Yuri. All was forgiven, then.

                  Victor skated his free skate, set to some Italian aria or something (it was called “Stay Close to Me,” which Yuri knew because Victor had talked about it a lot when he’d initially chosen the piece – not that Yuri paid attention to whatever shit Victor said, of course, because why would he do that?). Although he tried to pretend he didn’t care, Yuri was entranced. Somehow, this was the most emotional thing Victor had ever skated. He didn’t know a lot about Victor’s personal life, so he wasn’t sure where Victor was pulling this from; the other man almost never talked about the topics that really mattered.

                  Yuri was glad to see it end. It was unnatural to see cheerful, bubbly Victor pouring his heart out on the ice. It was unnatural and it was sad and he didn’t like it.

                  “What was that sad excuse of a triple axel?” Yakov lectured, right off the bat, and Yuri realized that it would be his turn soon. He mentally ran through the elements in his program. It wasn’t as personal as Victor’s, but –

                  _Or is it?_

He suddenly thought of Yuuri, staying up late to practice so that he could send Yuri a good recording that the latter had demanded he make. He thought of the news broadcast and all its bullshit and he thought of Victor’s correct accusation.

                  He scowled. What a pain.

                  Victor was walking off the ice and putting on his skate guards as Mila continued to talk about Victor’s artistic expression in this one part of his program, where he should probably flare his motions a little more, and...

                  “What did you think, Yura?”

                  Yuri stood up and pushed past Victor. “Whatever, old man.”

                  It was a defensive move. Yuri knew it. He kind of regretted it afterward, but what else was he supposed to say? _It was amazing and I wish I was like you?_ Or, even worse, _I hate seeing you all emotional like that because you’re supposed to be_ Victor, _a fucking annoying piece of crap old man who’s always there to cheer me up after practice_?

                  Yeah, _no._

                  He slipped off his skate guards, left them on the rink barrier, and stepped onto the ice. He did a quick lap as Yakov readied the CD player and then positioned himself in the middle of the rink. _This is supposed to be emotional!_ Yakov had yelled at him about a hundred too many times. _Show your heart to the audience, Yuri! What do you really feel?_

 _Bull,_ Yuri had said, at the time, not really meaning it.

                  Yuri nodded to Yakov, who pressed the button. The music started.

                  It started out soft and pretty, like echoes from far away, a distant memory. A bit of twirling. A hidden desire, calling to him. Just a bit of resentment, like an undertone that could only be uncovered once everything else had been stripped away.

                  And then came the next section, where the notes _moved_ and the music swayed and Yuri did, too. Yuuri had told him that the strange alignments of notes was called _polyrhythm,_ whatever that really meant, and Yuri danced to it. A triple axel, perfect. Combination spin. Triple flip, somewhere. Good. Perfect.

                  It broke for a moment, and then it came back, dreamlike and floating, desperate but beautiful. Yuri twirled, danced, floated himself, flew across the ice. One hand outstretched defiantly, he threw himself into a flawless triple, and then some more, and an outrageous step sequence, and throughout it all he could _feel_ the music like he’d never been able to do before, and it was all Yuuri’s fault, and –

                  Strong chords. Soft notes. Unfinished.

                  Clapping.

                  Yakov’s forehead was strangely soft. “Well done, Yuri.”

                  “Amazing, Yura!” Victor was cheering loudly, hands moving at an incredible pace as he continued clap long after Yuri dropped his final pose. “I had no idea you could skate like that!”

                  “Whatever, old man,” said Yuri dismissively, putting his skate guards back on. Inside, he felt elated. He’d done it. Yakov had practically nothing to say. He had done Yuuri’s recording justice.

**[22:41] Katsudon: I can’t wait to watch you at the GPF! Do your best this season!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we get further into Yuri's head as he sinks farther into the pit he's created for himself.

The Moment that Yuri Had Been Dreading came eventually. To be specific, it occurred when Yuri was once again at Victor’s place, hogging a bowl of popcorn to himself as they watched the stupidest love dramas they could find. They took turns criticizing the actors and the plot, Yuri throwing popcorn at the screen once in a while.

Yuuri called, via Skype. Eager to distract himself from the mind-numbing, brainwashing horror that was playing on Victor’s flat screen TV, Yuri picked up. “Hi.”

“Hi, Yura,” said Yuuri, warmly. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

 “Nope,” said Yuri, popping the “p” and pretending not to notice Victor’s interested expression. “Me and the old man are watching the _worst_ dramas ever made.”

“I thought you despised them all.”

“I _do_.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Yeah, okay. Anyway, I thought I’d catch up with you to see – “

“Spit it out,” said Yuri, rolling his eyes and suddenly remembering the thing about his eyes getting stuck that way. Whatever. “There’s something you want to tell me, so just tell me.”

“You always figure it out,” said Yuuri, amused. “Alright. I have a concert in Moscow next month, so I thought I could drop by and say hi. Does that sound okay to you?”

“Wow, a concert!” exclaimed Victor, grabbing Yuri’s phone despite the blonde’s attempts to get it back. “Hi again, Katsudon! How about me and Yura go to your concert?”

Yuri groaned, not at the thought of attending a concert, but because the Moment that Yuri Had Been Dreading had finally come. Victor was _really fucking invasive._ It wouldn’t go well for either of the two idiots.

“When is it?” Victor blabbered on, eyes shining, and suddenly Yuri wondered why Victor was treating Yuuri like a friend. They’d never met before. They’d literally talked over Skype _once._ “Ah, I can finally put my car to use! It’s been sitting in the garage collecting dust for so long, and – “

Yuri successfully grabbed his phone back. “Sorry about the idiot,” he said, as though Victor couldn’t hear him. On the other side, Yuuri’s face was flushed red. Oh. Oh no. _Oh, no, no, no, no, please no._

“I-It’s okay,” Yuuri squeaked and then Yuri’s Greatest Fears went from Possibly Imagination to Reality. “Um, if you really want to come, it’s on the 24th. A Saturday. You can buy tickets online.”

Victor had already grabbed his laptop and was logging in.

“It’s kind of formal, though,” Yuuri added, catching Yuri’s attention again. “I mean, I know you don’t like that sort of stuff, so it’s fine if you don’t go. It’s... how did you put it? It’s... ah, ‘for stuffy old rich men with monocles and handlebar mustaches,’ right?”

Yuri groaned as Victor laughed. “It _is_ ,” he said defensively, “but I’ll go to the stupid thing. You know, because it’s big. And because Victor’s making me.”

“ _Hell_ yes I am,” said Victor happily. “I found the site. _Wow,_ you’re playing at the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall? That’s amazing!”

Yuuri blushed red. Yuri bit his lip to keep from saying anything. “Y-Yeah, I mean... The only reason they’re letting me play there is because I won some competition. It’s really not that impressive – the guy who should’ve won had just suffered a big loss in his family, and – “

“Okay, Katsudon, shut up,” said Yuri abruptly, and Yuuri shut up. “Victor, I’m not sitting in your shitty car for that long. _I’m_ taking the train.”

“Oh, good idea!” Victor was typing again. “I’ve already bought tickets.”

Taking the train meant a nine hour journey reduced to somewhere around three and a half. Yuri watched as Victor reserved tickets for them before booking a hotel room for the night (and asking Yuuri where _he_ was staying, because obviously they should stay at the same hotel because _that_ made sense). If not for the fact that Yuri wanted to show off his friend’s skill, he would’ve refused to let Victor accompany him. Yuuri’s skill as a pianist was worth putting up with Victor for two days, nonstop. Probably.

But first, before they made plans for that, they would have to perfect their programs. The Grand Prix would begin soon, and there was no way in fucking hell that Yuri Plisetsky was going to get anything but gold in the Juniors’ Division.

Fuck the Juniors’ Division.

* * *

Yuri, unfortunately, still attended school.

Most of the time.

He was halfway through the most boring, suck-ass chemistry class ever to exist on the fucking Earth when his cell phone lit up. Shielded from the teacher’s gaze by the student in front of him, Yuri swiped to open the message.

**[14:03] Katsudon: Concert might be canceled**

**[14:04] Katsudon: Sorry if tha thappens**

**[14:04] Katsudon: Cant talk now**

He was instantly hit by a sense of déjà vu, because he had reacted similarly to the shocking news that his grandfather was in the hospital, last winter. There were three things that told Yuri something was very wrong: 1. the typo, 2. the lack of perfect punctuation, and 3. the fact that Yuuri was talking about cancelling his concert at the prestigious Tchaikovsky Hall.

Ignoring the risk of being caught (because what kind of loser actually paid attention to rules?), Yuri typed a quick message back.

**[14:05] Yuri: u ok?**

He remembered the breathtaking chill that had overtaken his body all at once, like a shocking dash of cold water being dumped on his head, when he’d received the news last year. He had been in school, sitting through a math lecture, when the office TA burst into the room and demanded that he pack his things and come along _right now, it couldn’t wait, it was important._ And then, after hurrying out of the room amidst a crowd of curious eyes, he’d been told that his grandfather had had a stroke and was now in the hospital.

He had stood there, aghast, mouth open, eyes wide, his mind running on overdrive and creating for itself a thousand scenarios. _I’m sorry, Yuri,_ the counselor had said, and Yuri had promptly burst into tears _and_ rage at the same moment, shouting, _He’s not dead! Stop talking like he’s dead, dammit!_

He was rushed to the hospital by the same counselor, who clearly took pity on him and his situation. Once he was assured that his grandfather was going to pull through, he collapsed on a nearby chair and called Yuuri. Even though it was five in the morning where Yuuri was, the latter had picked up immediately. It was with Yuuri’s help that Yuri had remained strong for his grandfather (who was genuinely glad to know he had such a close friend).

Yuri remembered it all very clearly.

He hoped Yuuri was okay.

Damn, he was worried. He was _worried._ It was one of those pesky emotions he’d tried to get rid of, tried not to show, but here it was. He was worried. He was worried for Katsudon, who had a heart of glass and a mind about to break at any time.

Naturally, when Yuuri didn’t reply, he spent the rest of the period drawing angry doodles in his notebook that somewhat resembled a disfigured Victor lying in a pool of his own blood.

“What’s wrong, Yura?” asked Mila later that afternoon, when he showed up at the rink for practice. Yuri noticed that his lips were pressed into a thin line and tried to relax them a little.

“Nothing,” he snapped, pulling on his skates and lacing them up. “Nothing _you_ need to worry about.”

“Vitya, he’s _your_ son,” said Mila off-handedly, and Yuri distantly realized that he was being “handed off” to Victor, who sat down beside him and tried to weasel the truth out of him. Yuri refused flatly and made his escape onto the ice, where he could dance without interruption.

 _You have a heart of glass and a mouth of steel,_ Yuuri had said to him, once, a long time ago. _But you can always be honest with me._

Fuck it all.

“Focus, Yuri!” shouted Yakov from somewhere, the annoying old man, and Yuri caught himself in time to land the next jump cleanly, but there was a sort of anger still, a sort of desperation that he didn’t really understand. It was in him, it was driving him, it was making him furious and sad all at the same time. There were tears, but whether they were hot tears or icy cold ones he didn’t know; even Victor’s kind offering of a fresh _pirozhki_ did nothing to alleviate the heavy weight in his lungs and the fire in his heart.

**[19:34] Katsudon: Please don’t worry about it.**

**[19:39] Yuri: no u don’t get to say that to me u stupid katsudon**

He wanted to scream, _Do you understand?! You, of all people, don’t get to say that to me, like it’s all fine, as though you didn’t leave my text sitting there for the entire day! What happened to you? Are you okay? Is your family okay?_

He kind of wanted to respond, _Fuck you, tell me what’s wrong, you stupid fuck._

Instead, he left it there after a hundred tries at putting the _right_ message together, and Victor got off at his bus stop with him and unsuccessfully tried to divert his attention with Disney movie marathons.

“Sorry,” said Yuuri, the next afternoon. Yuri, who was on break, leaned against the wall of the building. “I didn’t mean to worry you. My dog died. I’m flying back to Hasetsu tomorrow.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes, which Yuuri couldn’t see over the phone. He wished it was a Skype call like usual, not a voice-only phone call. Yuuri’s flat tone and quick words were strange, as though he were reading off a script that had been prepared for him. “You sure you’re okay? No bad guys kidnapping you?”

Yuuri chuckled, but it was weak and watery. “No bad guys, Yura. Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are,” muttered Yuri. “Your dog... Vicchan, right? Wasn’t he your most precious friend? You always sent pictures of him.”

There was a silence. “I...”

And then more silence. Yuri swore under his breath. “Look, if you’re devastated, just cry it out. I won’t make fun of you or whatever. It’s all I... It’s...” He clenched a fist, trying to find the right words, but they wouldn’t come in English. He reverted to Russian and said, “ _It’s the least I can do.”_

Even though he didn’t give an explanation, Yuuri seemed to understand. The sobs came quietly and brokenly, and Yuri’s heart of glass was starting to fracture on the edges. “ _Thank you,”_ said Yuuri, and Yuri just stood there with his phone pressed to his ear, saying nothing, until Yakov screamed at him to come back and sent Victor to haul his ass back onto the ice.

**[17:56] Yuri: listen to some music or something**

**[17:56] Yuri: my grandpa loves liebestraum**

**[17:57] Yuri: I have no idea what it is but it’s nice I guess**

**[18:18] Katsudon: Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3? It’s very beautiful. Thanks for the suggestion, Yura.**

**[18:20] Yuri: fuck yeah it is**

**[18:21] Katsudon: I think it suits you perfectly.**

**[18:22] Yuri: are u crazy? what does liebestraum even mean**

**[18:23] Katsudon: Haha, not crazy yet.**

**[18:23] Katsudon: Liebestraum means “Love’s Dream,” or “Dreams of Love.”**

**[18:24] Katsudon: I don’t want to affect your progress, so please don’t worry about me at all.**

_Don’t let your heart of glass fracture over me and my problems._

**[18:26] Yuri: fuck u. I’ll worry about whatever I want**

_I no longer have a heart of glass. I refuse to have something that breaks so easily._

His thoughts were becoming really fucking depressing and overdramatic. Victor was probably rubbing off on him.

Getting into the right mindset to skate his free skate was easier than ever before. Yakov nodded his approval and said something about how he was more expressive now. Yuri interpreted this to mean that he was showing more emotion now, which he wasn’t sure whether he was happy about or not. If it helped him win, though, he was willing to sell his soul.

But only if he was skating to Katsudon’s piano.

**[18:42] Katsudon: It’s not like your grandpa.**

“Yura,” Victor had said when told that the concert might be cancelled, “is he okay? Artists are temperamental, right? And whatever happened, it must’ve been serious.”

Yuri had struggled to come up with something to say, and eventually blurted out, “ _You’re_ temperamental,” which was actually not a lie, and that was that.

**[18:44] Yuri: vicchan wasn’t a PERSON, but that doesn’t mean he meant any LESS to u**

**[18:45] Yuri: I’ll fly there myself**

**[18:45] Yuri: fuck whatever victor an yakov have to say**

**[18:46] Yuri: ur dog was really cute**

In the end, Yuuri dissuaded him from buying plane tickets to Japan (by promising he’d be back on track and the concert would _not_ be cancelled, after all), but thanked him for his support in this “time of need.” Yuri brushed it off, like usual, but there was a small smile on his face. Victor said nothing about it.

* * *

There was actually a point in time when Yuri had wanted to be a pianist. Memories of a dark-haired, chubby boy pounding out melodies so graceful and impressive and yet powerful that one could only marvel at the artist’s age would continue to haunt the blonde throughout his childhood; even now, thinking of Yuuri, he remembered the street piano and the older boy’s smile.

“Aw, a crush,” Victor had cooed when they’d gotten Yuri to talk about his first “inspiration.” Red-faced and feeling steam coming off the top of his head, Yuri spat,

“Shut up. It’s not a crush.”

It wasn’t. Yuuri meant more to him than that. Somehow, the word “crush” seemed so tiny, so insignificant, and Yuuri _wasn’t_ ; he was Yuri’s best friend and a really fucking cool pianist. Yuri dared anybody to say otherwise.

His favorite thing to do was to shut down all the trolls on Yuuri’s social media. He saw them everywhere, now that Yuuri was steadily growing more famous, but especially on the pianist’s mostly stagnant Instagram and Twitter accounts. _You’re not even that good,_ they’d say, hiding their damn faces behind computer screens where they thought nobody could get them, _how’d you ever get accepted to Juilliard?_

And because Yuuri ignored them (which was probably the sensible and mature thing to do), Yuri hit back. _And I’m guessing you can play better?_ he’d challenge them, maybe a little childishly (or so Yuuri said). _Why don’t you show up in person so I can punch the fucking daylights out of you and hide your body?_

Mila, whose favorite sport was harassing Yuri, noticed these things quickly. “Yura,” she said to him once, cautiously, “it’s nice that you’re defending some pianist on Twitter, but who _is_ he?”

Yuri had initially spat some retort back at her before realizing that she could be a valuable… ally. She was already in the Seniors’ division, which received significantly more attention than the Juniors’, so she had a voice. “He’s my friend,” Yuri said, finally, before turning on his heel to avoid further questions

That night, in response to Yuuri posting about his senior recital in May, some fucking ignorant dipshit decided to call him out and say that he must have “bribed the judges at last week’s competition to win,” since _obviously_ “you’d never have even made it into Juilliard if it wasn’t for money.”

Before Yuri could respond, though, there was already a response posted below from a familiar username: _I’m glad you find him attractive too, means I’m not crazy. Advice tho, stop being a sore loser and work harder._

Yuri added, because he couldn’t help it, _Ur jealous cuz u can’t play that good and ur ugly._

“Yura!” Mila scolded the next day, arms crossed. “Don’t insult them back! You’re just making it worse!”

“ _He_ was the stupid one! Go yell at him!”

“I know, but now you’ve done something wrong, too, and it gives him more of a… moral high ground, perhaps? Do you get that?” Mila’s voice was soft and patient and understanding. Yuri gritted his teeth.

“Whatever!”

He’d just been trying to help.

The situation was very similar this time around, in present day. Yuri had been scrolling through Twitter when he saw Yuuri’s new tweet about his upcoming concert. He stated the facts, clear and simple, without any touch of pride: _Concert in Moscow on the 24 th! Buy tix here: [link]_

“Victor,” Yuri called, as he started to go through the responses. The silver haired man, sitting not too far away as they watched Mila practice alone with Yakov, turned around. “Did you buy the tickets already?”

Victor beamed. “Yeah! We got good seats, too!”

Yuri decided not to think about whether or not they’d be expensive. He continued scrolling. “And the tra – “

He cut off midsentence as his attention was diverted to something else. His eyes narrowed. What was this?

**[2 hours ago] @tori-linden: @katsuki-yuuri a screw-up like u is playing at Tchaikovsky hall? what a 1-time honor**

**[2 hours ago] @lakeandmaple: @tori-linden @katsuki-yuuri lollll agreed, ur technique sucks**

**[1 hour ago] @minami-pianist: @tori-linden what??? Yuuri is amazing! I love his recordings!!**

**[1 hour ago] @tori-linden: @minami-pianist there must be something wrong with ur ears lollll**

**[1 hour ago] @seung-gil-lee: @katsuki-yuuri good luck man. ignore the haters.**

**[1 hour ago] @phichit-chulanont: @katsuki-yuuri YOU’LL BE AMAZING MY DUDE ROCK THEIR SOCKS OFF**

**[30 minutes ago] @minami-pianist: all you haters are just jealous of Yuuri U_U**

**[28 minutes ago] @mila-babicheva: gl @katsuki-yuuri! wish I could go**

There were some others too, of course, from both sides. There were a lot of supportive people, actually, considering the enormity of a performance at Tchaikovsky Concert Hall, but Yuri was subconsciously picking out the surprising number of insults and steadily growing angrier and angrier. What _assholes!_ What gave them the fucking right to say anything at all?

“Yura?” he heard Victor question, noticing his sudden silence, but he said nothing and instead started typing, hands shaking a little and teeth gritted.

**[Just now] @yuri-plisetsky: @tori-linden @lakeandmaple @chopin-love @farrahsabaum y’all can shut the fuck up before I personally kick ur asses. fuck u**

About ten minutes later, when Mila came off the ice for her break and Victor stepped onto it, Yuri knew he was in trouble. The redhead towered over him, a slightly irritated expression on her face. “Look,” she said, “I know it’s not fair, but you’re just making them hate him more. Is that what you want?”

“They’re fucking assholes!” shouted Yuri, a little louder than he’d meant to. If Yakov and Victor overheard, they ignored him, probably assuming that Mila would handle it. Said woman didn’t dispute him on that point, but sighed heavily and put a hand on his shoulder. Yuri immediately jerked away.

“Sometimes, trying to fight is just fueling the fire,” she said. “If you really want to help him, just show your support and keep a cool head. I’m sure that’s what he would appreciate the most.”

“What do you know?” Yuri snipped, but he was pretty sure that Mila was right. Yuuri was generally a calm person, unlike him, always answering the teen’s letters (and later emails, and then texts) with patience and maturity.

Yuri went home that evening, still fuming, but he was unbelievably frustrated with himself. What a let-down, he thought. After all these years, he still couldn’t help Yuuri; it was someone like Mila, who had never even met or talked to him directly, who understood the older man. Yuri was a teenager – hot-headed, immature, un-empathetic. What. A. Failure.

“What should I do, Potya?” he murmured, cradling said cat in his arms as he listened to Yuuri’s recording of Chopin’s Ballade – his FS music, in other words. “What should I do when the whole world hates me? I can’t do anything right.”

What a failure. No wonder his grandfather had been so eager to send him away to St. Petersburg. _You have potential,_ everyone had kept saying as they’d encouraged him to join Yakov, but Yuri knew it wasn’t just that. Perhaps they were secretly glad to be rid of him and his short temper and cold attitude.

_What a failure._

He slept uneasily, mind plagued with the self-doubt that had been lingering for years and years – the doubt that he kept hidden away as best as he could, most of the time.

_What a failure._

In the morning, he got up, stretched, and went to school. He sat through his classes idly. Even when his English teacher made Yuri read an unfairly long passage just because he was more “advanced” in English than the rest of his class, the blonde only complied silently, garnering surprised looks from everyone. He ate alone at lunch, picking at the cafeteria sandwich. When the bell rang, signaling the end of school, Yuri filed out of the classroom, eyes glassy and unfocused, making for the bus station like he always did.

_What a failure._

Training that evening was hard, as always, and Yakov took no pity on him or any of the other skaters. Mila must’ve noticed his strange trance, because she tried to annoy him, but to no avail. Victor caught on soon after and invited him to spend the evening after training at his apartment where they could order take-out and watch cheesy movies (the kind that Yuri hated and Victor loved), but Yuri declined.

_What a failure._

**[22:08] Katsudon: Hey, what’s up on your side? Haven’t heard from you all day, is everything alright?**

Yuri exhaled slowly.

**[22:14] Yuri: yeah I’m fine. training sucked. glad ur feeling better.**

What a failure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri meets Victor. Yuri is not impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love my cat <3

He got over it, of course, within about two days, like he always did. He shoved the issue to the back of his mind and focused on ignoring it. Yuuri would probably call this “avoiding the problem,” but it had worked for years and it would work now.

When Victor cheerfully dragged him shopping one afternoon, Yuri dug in his heels, resisting the silver-haired man’s efforts. It wasn’t until he was bribed with ice cream and other free food that he relented, sitting in Victor’s car with his eyes glued to his phone screen. It made the ride less awkward. It also made him look rude, but that probably didn’t matter. Victor was used to it.

“Why am I going, anyway?” he grumbled as they got out of the fancy-ass car that attracted far too much attention and had probably cost a pretty penny. Victor just beamed at him.

“I want your advice on some stuff!” he said. “But first, we have to go to the designer’s to check out costume options.”

“You dragged me along for _that?_ ” Yuri sulked irritably. “I’ll just have to come back _again_ in two days for my own appointment.”

“Positive attitude!” said Victor, pushing him through the parking lot and toward the shop they always got their ice skating costumes from. The designer, Elizaveta, had been working with Yakov for years. She was a middle-aged lady with impeccable style, her blond hair cropped and styled atop her head. Every time Yuri saw her, she was wearing something _cool._

So, despite all the complaining he was doing, at least they were going to see someone he didn’t mind that much. She had given him the first “cool” costume he’d ever worn, a few years ago.

They were greeted by Elizaveta, who had clearly been expecting them. She cooed at Yuri, much to his distaste, and commented on how “grown-up” he looked now. Without really waiting for a response, she turned and led the two of them into the back room, where she had a few prototypes of Victor’s costumes on display.

“I like this,” said Victor thoughtfully, touching the sleeve of a pink-ish jacket. “Very regal.” It was, with the gold across the front and its overall suit-like appearance. It was a far cry from Victor’s usual genderfluid outfits, but somehow it suited him now that he was 26 years old – not a confused teenager anymore, but rather a mature-looking man at the top of the skating world.

Yuri only wished that his personality matched his appearance.

“What do you think, Yura?” Both Victor and Elizaveta were staring at him expectantly. Yuri cleared his throat.

“It’s… fine.”

“Just fine?” Victor pouted. “Think of all the work Miss Elizaveta put into this!”

Elizaveta laughed and waved it off. “No, no, don’t worry about that at all!”

“You should wear the pink one for your free skate,” said Yuri, relenting, causing both adults to turn in surprise. “Your short program seems like it's gonna be shit, but maybe they’ll give you extra points if you wear the sparkly one.”

“Then it’s settled!” Victor declared. “Thanks, Yura!”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

**[18:22] Katsudon: Haha, sounds like a real handful. I should remember to thank him in person for taking such good care of you.**

**[18:23] Yuri: wtf?? hes a total ass remember**

**[18:23] Yuri: u wouldn’t like him ok**

**[18:24] Yuri: dont even try**

**[18:25] Katsudon: Don’t be so negative all the time!**

**[18:25] Katsudon: By the way, I hope your programs are going well. I can’t wait to see them in person.**

**[18:26] Yuri: yeah. I’ll make it to the final for sure**

**[18:26] Yuri: couldn’t have u flying out for no reason**

**[18:26] Yuri: I’ll fucking win the thing**

**[18:27] Katsudon: I know you will :) I’m so proud of you! No matter what!**

Whenever Yuri was hit by a sudden flurry of emotion and needed a quick response, it was always the same one.

**[18:28] Yuri: whatever**

* * *

The day of Yuuri’s concert came quickly. Yuri wasn’t sure what the older man’s mental state was like at the moment, considering that it had only been a few weeks since Vicchan’s death. Even so, he didn’t say a word to either Yuuri or Victor as he traveled to Moscow with the latter. They each carried a duffel bag, planning to stay the night since concerts always ended late.

**[8:03] Yuri: u ready?**

**[9:22] Katsudon: Sorry, I was in the practice rooms! Yeah, I think I’ll be okay.**

**[9:25] Yuri: just arrived in moscow w victor**

**[9:25] Yuri: see u soon??**

**[9:26] Katsudon: Welcome back to Moscow! ^o^ I probably won’t see you until the concert since I’ll be practicing until noon.**

**[9:27] Yuri: idiot victor wants u to know u should have lunch w us**

**[9:27] Yuri: u shouldn’t overwork urself anyway**

**[9:29] Katsudon: Lunch with two skating legends? I think I can work that into my schedule :)**

**[9:30] Yuri: stfu**

“You’re renting a fucking _car?”_ Yuri spat, eyes wide in disbelief. Victor just smiled cheekily at him and held up the keys in answer. “But _why_? We can _walk._ Even my grandpa has a car we could’ve borrowed!”

“I like driving,” said Victor, beginning to head for the designated parking space to find their designated rental car. Yuri followed him, still a little speechless at this perfect demonstration of Victor’s ridiculous knack for over-the-top spending. As a teenager who hadn’t exactly grown up in luxury, Yuri tended to shy away from expensive things. He was used to public transit.

Victor, clearly, was not.

“Besides,” said man added, “this way, we can pick up Yuuri from wherever he is and take him to lunch with us!”

“That’s _Mr. Katsuki_ to you,” Yuri sneered, but Victor seemed to pay him no attention. Rolling his eyes, Yuri relayed the recent update to Yuuri, who responded with clear amusement but also some sympathy for Yuri’s situation.

They got to the hotel and checked in to a suite on the top floor – another example of Victor’s dramatic flair for the _extra._ There was no other way to put it, unless you started going for slightly derogatory things like _fucking ridiculous._

Yuri dumped his stuff on one of the beds and called his grandfather to let him know he was in town. His grandfather, of course, invited them to come over, but understood that it would be difficult with that day’s schedule. As such, they settled for tomorrow and an unspoken understanding that Yuuri was to come along as well, if at all possible.

Yuuri had only met Yuri’s grandfather once, quite a while ago, but the two of them had gotten along well. It was for Yuuri that his grandfather had created the katsudon pirozhki, which to this day was still a party favorite among their extended family.

“Let’s go exploring!” shouted Victor, as soon as he noticed that Yuri was done on the phone. Yuri gave him a clearly unimpressed look, which unfortunately did nothing to discourage the silver-haired man. They ended up exploring the area around the hotel, finding a small, cozy coffee shop and a weird boutique and then some antique shop. There was even a sports chain store where Victor and Yuri were easily recognized and forced to sign autographs and take pictures with fans.

By the time they got out of it all, it was already nearing noontime and Yuri was fed up with Victor’s awful ideas.

**[11:38] Yuri: u ready?**

**[11:39] Yuri: cant stand being stuck w victor for much longer ok**

**[11:43] Katsudon: Haha, sounds exciting?? I’ll be done by 12. Where should we meet?**

**[11:46] Yuri: where are u right now, will pick u up**

**[11:47] Katsudon: [Address]**

“Hello,” said Yuuri, slipping into the backseat of the surprisingly low-key Toyota that Victor had rented. “You must be Victor. I’m Yuuri Katsuki.”

“I’ve heard all about you!” said Victor cheerfully, and the two shook hands. Yuri acted bored, wondering how strange it would be if he expressed his happiness toward seeing his childhood friend again. “Victor Nikiforov. I’m Yura’s brother.”

“You are _not_ ,” said Yuri immediately. Yuuri laughed.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” he said, “but mostly insults and complaints. Hi, Yura. Long time no see.”

“Hi,” Yuri grumbled, almost wanting to slap the silly smile off of Victor’s face. “Ignore Victor, like I said. He’s a fucking ass.”

“Yura, I’m hurt,” said Victor dramatically, which Yuri ignored. Yuuri smiled, and Victor’s face flushed pink, just a little bit. Yuri sank lower in his seat as the reality sank in. This was going to be _hell._

They ended up going to a relatively small Russian restaurant so that it was less likely for the three of them to be recognized (specifically Victor, whose silver hair was like a beacon signaling his presence to anybody nearby). Yuri got progressively quieter and quieter as Victor and Yuuri flirted, the latter probably taking part without even realizing it. What a massive _pain_ in the ass.

“Anyway, how’ve you been, Yura?” asked Yuuri eventually, turning to him as they waited for their meals to arrive. Yuri scowled.

“I was _fine_ until _you two_ decided to start _flirting_.”

Yuuri turned red immediately. “W-What? I wasn’t – we weren’t – “

Yuri rolled his eyes. Victor stuck out his tongue, which went unnoticed by the stuttering Japanese man. “Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever. I’m fine. My grandpa wants you to come by for lunch tomorrow.”

“Oh,” said Yuuri, surprised. “I… Yeah, that should be fine. Thanks.”

Yuri just nodded, a little uncertain of how to keep the conversation going. It wasn’t uncomfortable yet, but he was definitely feeling the urge to pull out his phone, if only to make things seem less awkward.

“How are your programs?” Yuuri inquired, which Yuri was thankful for. “You’re using the Chopin still, right? And I can’t remember what your short program music is.”

“I picked it myself,” said Yuri happily, causing Yuuri’s eyebrows to rise. “But it’s a secret. You’ll see.”

“Uh- _huh_ ,” said Yuuri, tapping a finger against the table. He turned to Victor (who looked delighted). “What about you? You’re like… the king of figure skating, right?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that!” Victor smiled brightly, trying to pass off the compliment despite it being absolutely true. “Um, my short program is kind of undecided at the moment. Do you have any suggestions?”

Yuuri blanched. “Me? I don’t know. Isn’t it kind of late to be deciding?” He blushed red. “Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but – “

“Not at all,” said Victor happily. Yuri groaned. “The juniors’ division starts way earlier than us, so Yura should be ready by now. I still have a bit of time, and I’m already polishing up my free skate, so it should be no problem!”

“I see.” Yuuri nodded. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the Grand Prix. I’ve only ever followed the juniors’ division because Yura’s been in it.”

“It’s so nice to know you have dedicated friends, Yura!” said Victor, a bit patronizingly, and Yuri kicked him under the table. Their food arrived, cutting the conversation short, and it was a while into stroganoff and pirozhki when Yuuri suddenly said,

“Um, if you’d like… I could try to find a piece for you. But I don’t know much outside of classical piano, so if you don’t like that, then – “

“Great!” Victor clapped his hands together excitedly. Yuri wanted to die. “Let’s sort it out tomorrow! It’ll be fun!”

Yuuri looked a little scared. “Uh, yeah. Fun.”

 _This_ was exactly why Yuri hadn’t wanted the two of them to meet. Victor was all-encompassing and invasive. Yuuri was timid and hard-working. Victor liked to flaunt his achievements. Yuuri kept them on the down-low. Victor was an old man. Yuuri had years and years ahead of him.

They were obviously not a good match. Yuri crossed his arms defiantly. Not at all.

The three of them ended up dropping Yuuri off at the same building where they’d picked him up, but Yuri insisted on going with him, if only to ditch a (very disgruntled) Victor. As they walked into the building together, Yuuri pulling out a blue piece of cardstock with writing on it, Victor drove off to relax at the hotel for a while.

“You can just ignore Victor, you know,” said Yuri, noticing Yuuri’s red flush. “Seriously. Stop flirting with him. He’s awful for you.”

“Yura, don’t be so condescending,” Yuuri scolded, ironically. Yuri sent him a half-hearted glare. “And I told you, I’m not flirting. We were just talking. He seems nice. And he takes care of you.”

“He does _not,_ ” said Yuri weakly, but they both knew the truth and he couldn’t win. “Okay, sometimes he buys me food. That’s it.”

Yuuri just smiled knowingly and led him down the hallway lined with doors. They turned a corner and entered a fairly large room with a piano in the corner. “You can sit wherever,” he said, and Yuri decided to sit in the corner opposite the piano as Yuuri put the piece of cardstock in the door window. The room was modestly decorated. In other words, it was boring.

He watched Yuuri shuffle around with his stuff for a while before saying, “Whatever piece you give Victor, remember, it can’t be better than mine.”

Yuuri smiled over his shoulder and continued to pull a white binder out of his bag. “Are you still on this, Yura? You’re awfully insistent when it comes to Victor.”

Yuri huffed. “I told you, he’s a douchebag. An asshat. A little shit.”

“If we’re talking about ‘little,’ Yura, you’re one to talk.” Yuuri gave him a calm, placid smile as Yuri raged at how his insult had been turned against him. “No, no, calm down. Listen, I know Victor is a cool guy. I’m not trying to take him away from you.”

Yuri froze. What? Where in the depths of Yuuri’s mind had he gotten _that_ assumption? Yuri wouldn’t give a flying fuck if Victor was suddenly hauled away by another 14-year-old skater and forced to spend all his time there. Okay, maybe he would give 0.1 fucks, but that was it.

“So you don’t have to worry.” Yuuri continued smiling at him as he sat down on the piano bench, placing the white binder on the music stand. “You can help me choose his music, if you want. I’ll give you all the credit.”

Yuuri Katsuki was an idiot.

Yuri was fuming, his face turning warm and his fingers tapping against his side as he held back the urge to throw something across the room.

“I don’t want that!” he blurted out, unable to stop himself, and Yuuri’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I don’t… I don’t care about Victor, alright? Stop assuming things!”

He regretted his outburst a second later, but then Yuuri smiled and said, “Alright. Sorry for assuming things.”

And then he felt even worse and tried to ignore the painful feeling in his stomach by sulking in the corner as Yuuri practiced.

What a failure, he thought. He couldn’t even communicate his thoughts clearly, and he was fourteen now, in his last year as a junior skater, and he wasn’t the one who’d just suffered a tragedy. What a failure.

But he was also kind of mad at Yuuri, because the damn idiot couldn’t see past his tinted glasses. For some reason, he always thought the world was against him when in reality the world was shoving _Go Yuuri Katsuki!!!_ posters in his face. If Yuri was a world-famous pianist like him, he would be more than satisfied. He would compose whatever pieces and record whatever crap and teach lessons and inspire people.

But Yuri was not a world-famous pianist, and Yuuri was not satisfied.

“-ra? Yura?”

Yuri blinked and snapped out of his reverie. “Yeah?”

Yuuri was gazing at him with a strange look in his brown eyes. Yuri silently dared him to ask the three words he hated most, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “It’s only been about forty-five minutes, but you seem bored. Do you want to run down to the convenience store and grab some snacks?”

Yuri glanced at the clock, surprised. 14:37. He shook his head, a little dazed for some reason, and then stood up. Yuuri removed his hand from his shoulder. “Yeah, sure. What do you want?”

“No snacks before a performance,” said Yuuri determinedly, and Yuri raised an eyebrow.

“Why, because you’ll binge eat?”

“Exactly,” said Yuuri, without missing a beat, before pausing. “Wait, how did you know?”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “I know you. I’ll bring you _one_ thing. You can’t get fat from that.”

Yuuri looked hesitant, but the blonde waved him off and exited the practice room without looking back. He could hear the soft strains of the piano start up again behind him. He gritted his teeth. If only Yuuri could just _see_ how _good_ he was – everything would be better. And then Yuri could worry about his own problems, because he had a lot of them and quite frankly he had no friends and if that wasn’t a neon sign screaming _problem child,_ he didn’t know what was.

He walked to the convenience store on the corner and, after casting the cashier a very suspicious glance and getting one in return, grabbed two cans of soda and two bags of chips. The cashier looked like a gang member who might pull a gun on Yuri as easily as Yuri could punch him in the face (because how stupid would Yuri have to be to _not_ take self-defense classes?), but they got through the transaction by some mutual understanding that Yuri was not a safe target.

Yuri decided to spare Yuuri the details on this adventure and stormed his way into the practice room instead.

“Back already?” Yuuri smiled at him, continuing to play whatever it was he was playing. It certainly sounded like part of a piece, but he was just playing the tiny section over and over again, frowning sometimes and starting over. Yuri nodded, holding up the plastic bag. “Just don’t spill anything. Especially not on the piano.”

“Obviously,” said Yuri, a little miffed at being treated like a little kid who knew nothing. Of _course_ he wouldn’t eat by the piano; that would be stupid. He took the same seat he’d been in earlier and pulled out a bag of regular potato chips. Yuuri continued playing the same passage over and over, reminding Yuri a lot of when Yakov made him practice his step sequences for an hour straight, and eventually caved and grabbed the other bag of chips.

“Are you sure you’re not bored?” asked Yuuri, and Yuri paused with a chip halfway to his mouth. “You can always call Victor.”

“Why would I want to do that?” said Yuri, chomping down hard on the chip for emphasis. “I told you, he’s fucking annoying.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow.

“He _is._ And he’s, like, 26 and still watches Disney movies.”

“ _I_ watch Disney movies,” said Yuuri, offended.

“Only when Phichit makes you.”

“You have a point,” said Yuuri, no longer offended. “But come on, Yura; the guy adores you. Treats you like a little brother.”

It was true, but Yuri hadn’t asked for an overly-invasive older brother. “So?”

“ _So,_ ” said Yuuri, sounding a little exasperated, “you should be nicer to him. I know you act like you hate him, but he’s basically the closest thing to family you have in St. Petersburg, right? He even came along, all the way to Moscow, to accompany you to this concert.”

“I didn’t _ask_ him to,” Yuri quipped, before muttering in Russian, “and besides, he didn’t come along for _me._ ”

“What was that?” asked Yuuri in perfect Russian, and Yuri pointedly ignored the question. “Of course he came for you, Yura – who else?”

 _You,_ thought Yuri silently, but kept his mouth shut stubbornly. Yuuri took that as a sign for him to continue pressing his point.

“Exactly. I wish I could see you more often, but I can’t. I’m hours and hours away from you. And Victor’s a nice guy. A good friend. Your best friend, maybe.”

“ _You’re_ my best friend,” said Yuri without really intending to, and then he turned red and clamped his mouth shut as Yuuri’s eyes widened. He’d gone and done it now. Sappy. Awkward. He hated awkward, but it seemed to be the theme of his life.

“Aw, Yura,” said Yuuri, patting him on the shoulder. Yuri rolled his eyes. “I’m glad. But Victor can be like your brother, then. I should really thank him for looking after you.”

And that was when Yuri realized that all protests from now on would be fruitless. Whether he admitted it or not, Yuuri Katsuki _liked_ Victor. Probably a lot. And Victor was, for some reason, already infatuated with Yuuri (okay, Yuri could understand why), and Yuri was certain that none of this would end well and he would be stuck with a brother and a best friend at odds with each other.

If that wasn’t awkward, he didn’t know what was.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri realizes what his free skate is about

 

“Victor!” Yuri shouted from the doorway, tapping his foot impatiently and glaring at the time displayed in big numbers on his phone lockscreen. “We’re going to be _late_!”

“Just a second!” he heard Victor call. A few moments later, he dashed into the room and struck a pose. “How do I look?”

“Like a fucking idiot who’s going to be late,” said Yuri, yanking open the hotel room door and stomping outside, Victor close at his heels. “This isn’t a photoshoot, you know.”

“But it’s Yuuri’s concert!” Victor protested, and although Yuri sort of agreed with that sentiment, he refused to let it show on his face. It had been one day, and Victor was already acting like Yuuri was some close friend of his. “It’s an important and special concert, so why not dress nicely?”

“Because,” said Yuri, yet _again,_ “we’re going to be _fucking late. Which part of that do you not understand?”_

“I’ll drive really fast,” said Victor seriously, making Yuri hesitate as he was about to get into the rented car. In the end, he just rolled his eyes and got in anyway, because, you know, Yuuri’s concert was going to start in _twenty minutes_ and they hadn’t even left the damn hotel.

True to his word, Victor completely ignored the speed limit and sent the convertible – and Yuri, as an unfortunate result – flying through the streets of Moscow. It was actually a hard task to do, considering the traffic, but Victor did it somehow, just like how he always seemed to manage to do everything. Victor was a whirlwind, carefree and graceful. As a kid, Yuri had admired him so much for that.

Truth be told, he still did. But Victor was _always_ like that, so Yuri rarely thought about it anymore – except for particularly strange situations, like this one.

They got to the Concert Hall five minutes before the start of the show, dashed up all the stairs, found their seats as the lights were dimming (much to the displeasure of some surly ushers), and leaned back to enjoy the show. Or, at least, that was what Yuri had hoped for, but Victor was so full of energy that Yuri had to physically stop his leg from bobbing up and down and causing a distraction for the old couple sitting beside them.

“Just _fucking listen_ ,” Yuri hissed in English, so that maybe he would go unnoticed by the old couple (he didn’t, but worth a try). Victor gave him an apologetic smile – a _fake_ one – and returned his attention to the stage, where something was happening.

Yuri would never say something as careless as _Yuuri Katsuki is actually fucking hot,_ but, well, if he did, he wouldn’t have been lying. Yuuri, without his usual blue-rimmed glasses, was wearing a suit that streamlined his figure. His hair was styled back, away from his face, like a model. He looked a little nervous. Yuri would’ve called him an imposter if it weren’t for that nervousness, clear in his body language and facial features.

He bowed, and the hall rang with applause. There was a fairly large turnout, Yuri thought, and then wondered if Yuuri was nervous. It was a lot of people, in a foreign country, not too long after his dog’s death. Did his dog’s death have anything to do with his nervousness? Maybe not, but at the very least, surely it would impact him somehow –

He realized that his own knee was bobbing up and down. He forced himself to stop. Whether he worried or not, the result would be the same.

His worries were quickly dispelled. Yuuri’s opening piece was an etude so fast and powerful that Yuri’s eyebrows rose. He was enchanted, as usual, by Yuuri’s artistic ability, but he was also (pleasantly) surprised to hear Yuuri start with such fervor and confidence. He also recognized the piece as the thing Yuuri had been drilling for most of the afternoon, which made a lot of sense.

Beside him, Victor’s eyes were wide, and he leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped together. For once, Yuri couldn’t fault him for being so enamored with Yuuri; playing the piano was something that belonged to Yuuri, just like ice skating belonged to Victor.

Victor was a whirlwind, carefree and graceful. Yuuri was usually shy and demure, easily swept away in a torrent of emotions and uncertainties, like a leaf being blown in the wind. But when he played the piano, he was different. _He_ was the whirlwind, carefree and graceful and _powerful,_ the emotions that so often controlled him now swirling around him in an impressive demonstration instead.

Applause. Yuri’s hands were starting to hurt from clapping so much, and they weren’t even halfway through the program.

Following the first etude, there were two more, all Chopin because this was an all-Chopin program. After that was something called a “Scherzo,” and then another one, and they were all-encompassing and far more than just “impressive.”

When the lights turned back on for a short intermission, Yuri found himself a little dazed, feeling just as emotionally exhausted as he did after a long afternoon on the ice. Victor glanced at him. “Yuuri’s amazing,” he declared, and Yuri just nodded, not moving from his seat. “I can’t believe you’ve been hogging him all to yourself, Yura! How cruel!”

“Shut up,” said Yuri automatically, and Victor pretended to be hurt. Yuri grabbed the program that had been given to them at the door and glanced down the selection of pieces to come. The entire second half was composed of four ballades.

Oh.

He didn’t even know how to react to that.

He didn’t know how he would react to hearing Yuuri perform the piece that would be the music for his free skate, live. On one hand, it would be good for him to thoroughly hear and more or less understand the entire piece, so that he could skate it better. Or something. Yakov always said that the music was the most important thing, and while Victor was incredibly technically skilled, he also spent a long time deliberating his music choices as to help his performance skills. So Yuri knew that as someone who danced to music, understanding the music was probably a good first step.

But it scared him, and he didn’t quite know why. All he knew was that he shrank away from Victor when the older man asked to see the program and then threw some smart-ass retort in his face to stop him from asking so many questions. Yuri didn’t know the answers either, so Victor could just shut up.

The lights dimmed again, about ten minutes later. Victor had been busy on his phone, his fingers flying across the screen, but he promptly put the device away without so much as a glare from Yuri. It was surprising, kind of, since Victor was _still_ a wild child at his 26 years of age, but then Yuri remembered that this was Yuuri Katsuki’s concert and therefore nothing was normal. Not even Victor.

Yuuri came out, his hair slicked back with some more gel (it had started to come undone by the end of the first half), and bowed to more applause. He sat down on the bench and waited, letting silence ripple through the hall. Yuri remembered hearing something about a pianist who had played a piece of silence, literally sitting there for over four minutes unmoving and claiming that the little sounds all around them made up the music, including the silence that was as much noise as it was _nothing._

Yuri had scoffed when he’d first heard that and loudly declared it bullshit. He still thought it was _too_ outlandish to be called “music,” but as Yuuri sat there and prepared to hit the opening C of Chopin’s First Ballade (and Yuri knew this because like he had admitted already, a pianist had been his greatest inspiration for many years), he thought he sort of understood. There was a bit of tension in the air as the audience waited, waited, _waited_ for that powerful first note – and Yuuri understood that, felt it himself, _waited_ even as he lifted his hands to the keys, took a little breath, let the silence teeter –

And then it arrived, not unlike the etude he had started the program with, big and strong and _present._ Very unlike the Yuuri that most people knew, perhaps, but Yuri remembered this piece as clearly as he remembered his programs from last season.

Despair dripped through every note that Yuuri played, heavy and constant, growing and multiplying as the tension ripped at everyone’s hearts. There were the sweet, beautiful sections that rang like old memories, nostalgic and familiar. Yuri thought of his father, who had succumbed to the despair that came with his wife’s death, begging _his_ father to please, please, _please won’t you take care of my Yuri, I can’t do this anymore._ He remembered when his parents would take him on picnics and explorations into the woods. He remembered them cheering him on during ballet lessons and on the ice.

He remembered smiling, laughing, feeling warm despite the freezing winter wind, encased in a bubble he never wanted to leave.

He remembered it shattering once, twice, almost three times. He remembered it disappearing into thin air.

Yuuri’s hands flew across the keys, always to return to play the next somber chord, as the march of life went on and on and on…

The key shifted. It was peaceful again, and Yuri basked in the sunlight, staring out the window at the fluffy clouds. A tabby cat curled up beside him, warm and soft and comforting. He could smell his mother cooking dinner.

He had been reading a book about tigers, but now the warmth was lulling him to sleep and he succumbed without a care in the world, slowly, slowly, slowly.

But nothing good like that _ever_ lasted in Yuri Plisetsky’s life, and he was dragged back to reality with a current of quick, desperate notes, and he remembered the panic and the shouting and the anger, because _why couldn’t everything just be okay?_ And after that, nothing was quite the same, even though everyone tried so hard to put it back together, and it was all just a mere imitation, a farce, about to break once again.

And then he’d moved in with his grandfather, who had looked after him carefully and who never pushed him too far and who made him smile again with fresh _pirozhki_ and hot chocolate when he was having a bad day. The mood was melancholy more often than not, but they both tried their best. Yuri’s temper tantrums were frequent, but his grandfather never gave up on him – not once.

He paid for ballet and skating lessons and treated Yuri to a grand feast every year on his birthday. He walked Yuri to school and back and listened to Yuri complain about the stuck-up bullies at his school who had no idea what it was like to be _him._ He told Yuri that there was nothing wrong with being a boy who danced and figure skated.

One winter, Yuri and his grandfather went to the shopping mall just before the New Year. It was cold – not quite snowing, but close – and Yuri stuck his little hands into his pockets, burrowing further into his scarf.

From far away came a distant melody. Piano. Classical music. Yuri was entranced, somehow, because the notes spoke to him, resonated within him, and he set off to follow them, ignoring his grandfather’s questions. Every note pounded deeper into his soul until he didn’t know if he was overjoyed or sobbing. He rounded a corner and found a dark-haired boy, a few years older than him, perhaps, playing a street piano that was horribly out of tune. It was beautiful. Yuri had never seen or heard something more beautiful in his life.

The boy finished the piece, and Yuri clapped as loudly as he could with his hands encased in warm mittens. The older boy whipped around and promptly turned red at the sight of someone watching him. Yuri said, _I liked it! Play some more!_

There was a language barrier, which Yuri didn’t understand for a while, but his grandfather came up behind him and said some things, and then the older boy smiled and said _thank you,_ two words in English that Yuri understood from what he’d learned in school.

_I want to be like that, too! I want to play the piano!_

It had been an idealistic thing, brought up by Yuri’s first meeting with the pianist who could dig deep into his soul without even knowing it. He hadn’t stuck with the piano for long, deeming it “Yuuri’s thing,” but then he’d realized that by skating, he could bring music to life. It had motivated him for years. He would write Yuuri letters in shaky English, telling him about what he’d learned in dance class or in skating lessons that day. Yuuri would write back with carefully formed letters, gently encouraging Yuri and, in return, telling him what he was learning in his music lessons.

Yuri Plisetsky was eight years old, and he had a secret from the world. It was okay if his classmates teased him for being “girly,” because he had Yuuri on his side, and Yuuri was the Most Impressive Person Ever – well, except for his grandfather, but that was different. It was okay if he fell hard on the ice, because a letter from Yuuri was waiting for him at home, unopened in its crisp white envelope that had been mailed all the way from Japan. It was okay if he failed a test at school, because Yuuri always told him that as long as he did his best, nobody could fault him.

He was socially awkward, socially inept, socially _handicapped._ He couldn’t hold a decent conversation with anybody. He was a terrible grandson and he had once forgotten to visit his mother’s grave on her death anniversary. He lashed out at his classmates and teachers. He yelled and thrashed in his skating instructor’s grip. He pouted, whined, threw tantrums, and screamed, long past the age where those things could be considered “normal.”

Yuri Plisetsky was ten years old, and he hated himself. What a failure, he thought, unable to keep the thoughts at bay. His grandfather always seemed to silently understand, but _why?_ Why would he stand by and let Yuri say these things to him? Why would he forgive him?

Yuuri reprimanded him gently in a letter and told him to apologize. It took Yuri another week to muster up the courage. Yuuri started learning Russian, and would try to write sentences in the foreign language for Yuri to correct.

Yuri Plisetsky was twelve years old and being shipped off to St. Petersburg, where he would train with Yakov Feltsman, the very same man who had coached Victor Nikiforov to success. His grandfather told him to be safe and hugged him before he got on the train. Yuri told him not to worry, a desire to protect his grandfather driving him to act overconfident.

He texted Yuuri on his new phone to let him know how things were changing. Yuuri told him that everything would be alright. But nothing was going to be the same, so how could that be true?

Yuri Plisetsky was almost fourteen years old and he’d just been pulled out of class. The bubble was breaking yet again, his heart crumbling in on itself, his first instinct to _run, run, run._ He ran. He called Yuuri, who was in class at the prestigious Juilliard. Yuuri answered anyway. He put the pieces of glass back together, slowly, over the next week, until Yuri was whole again, or at least as close as he could be.

At the rink, Victor and Mila and Georgi, his new friends, held a birthday celebration for him. They ate lots of cake and ice cream despite Yakov’s gruff reprimands. They did silly things and took pictures and declared that they would save them forever. Yuri’s grandfather was released from the hospital and ordered to rest. Yuri was convinced to create a Twitter account because of his rising fame as a junior skater and convinced Yuuri to make one, too. They followed each other and watched each other’s follower count go up, up, up.

Victor declared himself Yuri’s older brother. Mila took on the role of an older sister. They bickered and fought and snarled and bonded over a mutual feeling of distaste for Georgi’s ex-girlfriend (who was still on his mind in present day, a year later). Yuri felt uncomfortable lowering his guard, so he kept it up like a lot of teenagers did, snapping when someone came too close. Victor and Mila didn’t care and approached him anyway. Yuuri said he was glad.

A familiar routine, familiar faces, people who put up with him even though he was Yuri. Constant texts from Yuuri, who was pursuing his own career as a pianist – not an easy feat. The constant longing for lazy afternoons with the family cat, the smell of his mother’s cooking drifting through the air, the realization that he had to move forward. Struggle, and you will get there.

He was used to his bubble bursting, his heart breaking, at a loss for what to do, staring at a dead end. But there were other people he called family, who would always be there, whose stories would continue on for much longer, who made him feel like less of a failure and more of a human.

Yuri Plisetsky was fifteen years old. He would make his senior debut next season. But for now, he would skate as the junior champion, crowned for the whole world to see, proudly showing off all the people who had gotten him there.

The coda section of the Fourth Ballade – the section after where Yuri’s Free Skate music was cut – was fast, strong, and chaotic, throwing caution to the wind. This was the section that came after Yuri’s “unfinished” story, and it was almost anarchic. But it was also powerful, confident, and ringing with a strength that Yuri had never known before – that he’d only seen in Victor’s occasional glares and Yuuri’s rare tears.

He was a failure, but he was on a journey, and he would struggle through it and eventually, surely, there was an end, a place where he could stop and be satisfied and happy – where he could smile and talk to the people he loved and be loved in return.

Applause.

Yuri clapped along mechanically, dazed, watching as Yuuri stood up from the bench and bowed once, twice, three times, and then walked off stage, only to return to the stage amid more applause. “Yura,” said Victor quietly, and Yuri tore his eyes away from Yuuri to meet Victor’s, “you’re crying.”

Was he?

Slow to react, he raised a hand to his cheeks to find them wet. He wiped the tears away. His emotions and messed up past could wait until he wasn’t in public, until nobody could see him and he could be sad in peace. How was he supposed to stop being a failure if he couldn’t even convince the world he was worth it?

Yuuri had unknowingly helped him, once again, and Yuri would repay that if it was the last thing he did. At the very least, he would prove to the world that Yuuri Katsuki was worth it – and maybe, _maybe,_ manage to prove himself as he went.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they visit Yuri's grandpa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not too proud of this one. I had a lot of moments where i wanted to say something or go somewhere, but I'm not sure if I properly conveyed that through my writing, haha :P hope you guys enjoy it anyway.   
> I base Yuri's inner thoughts mostly off of my own, because I feel like I've also said a lot of stuff that unintentionally hurt people just because I didn't know how to phrase it or say it "correctly." as most of you are probably either teens yourself or have gone through the awkward teen stage, you probably get it :)  
> I also really hate trying to write Victor bc he's just so dramatic and I feel like I'm overdoing it but I'm really not??? lol

It was kind of like putting on makeup. Yuri probably could’ve filmed a YouTube video the same way those makeup vloggers did (not that he had ever watched any of those videos – of course not), and he might even have been successful.

First, he stared at himself in the mirror for about a minute, inspecting himself for the fun of it and trying to trick his mind into thinking he was good-looking to some extent. Next, he flattened his unruly hair with some water and ran a comb through it – a step that worked sometimes and didn’t work other times, because his hair tended to curl at the ends and make him look like he’d gotten a particularly strange, grown-out bowl cut.

He would then quickly splash his face with water and apply a facial cleanser, mostly because Yakov had suggested it and Victor swore by this particular brand. Yuri washed it off, washing off any traces of weakness at the same time. He patted his face dry and told himself to stop being a fucking drama queen because he was Yuri Plisetsky and he was going to be great, dammit.

With any traces of tears washed away, his skin more or less clean, his eyes totally shining and his mind ready to take on the new day ( _not_ ), he ventured out of the hotel bathroom to find Victor sprawled out on the sofa with one leg hanging off. He was tempted to push him onto the ground but reasoned that he was hungry and food came first, so he went downstairs in his loose t-shirt and (tiger-print) shorts that he used as pajamas.

Because Victor paid so much, they had free access to the VIP Lounge, where food was out for free all the time. It was great, because it was like an all-you-can-eat buffet, though admittedly with less options and questionable nutrition. Yuri didn’t really care, immediately spooning a huge pile of scrambled eggs onto his plate and then looking for the bacon. Bacon reminded him of Yuuri. That was weird.

His phone buzzed.

**[7:56] Katsudon: When are we going to see your grandfather? I assume you and Victor will pick me up?**

He balanced his plate in one hand and typed with the other – an impressive feat, yes, thank you, he knew he was amazing.

**[7:58] Yuri: well before lunchtime I guess**

**[7:58] Yuri: victor’s still asleep the lazy ass**

**[8:01] Katsudon: Well, it’s still early. I’m surprised you’re awake. I’m only up because of jetlag**

**[8:02] Yuri: if he was a true skater he’d get up this early every morning for a jog**

**[8:03] Yuri: but I guess he’s an old man now so w/e**

**[8:04] Katsudon: Haha, I’m sure he loves and appreciates you too. Let me know when you’re on your way**

**[8:04] Yuri: k**

After breakfast came the surprisingly (or not surprisingly, he supposed, if you knew him at all) difficult task of waking Victor up and getting him out the door. Yuri called his grandfather at the same time, putting it on speaker and telling him that they would be on their way soon. His grandfather seemed happy about it and didn’t question the strange noises in the background – a result of Yuri trying to pull Victor off the couch and Victor trying to resist him to the best of his ability.

Yuri hung up with his grandfather. “Get _up,_ you lazy ass,” he barked, and then Victor groaned and rolled over. “Up! We have to pick up Katsudon!”

Victor’s eyes flew open and he jerked, causing him to fall off the couch and onto the floor. Yuri frowned. Had he taken that much of an interest in Yuuri? Victor was widely known as a playboy, charming his way to millions of hearts but never taking them particularly seriously. What a jerk.

“What did you even _do_ last night?” demanded Yuri, hand on hip and a displeased scowl on his face. Victor squinted at him and then patted his pockets with a frown before spotting his phone sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Yuri snatched it away before Victor could grab it. “You were on your phone, weren’t you?”

“ _I’m_ the adult here,” Victor sniffed, standing up and holding out a hand expectantly. Yuri spectacularly ignored him and made for the bedroom so that he could change into street clothes. “Yura!”

“ _Adult,_ my ass,” Yuri scoffed. “You’re just an overgrown child. Get ready so we can leave.”

Victor sulked like the giant manchild he was, but in about twenty minutes, they had achieved the difficult task of getting out the door with all their luggage. Victor asked the valet service to get his rental car ready, and it was waiting for them by the time they got downstairs. As Victor went to the front counter to check out, Yuri made for the car, handing them the slip of paper and tipping them and receiving the keys in return.

He sat in the passenger seat and craftily pulled out Victor’s phone. On the lockscreen were two texts from Yakov (angry ones), one from Mila containing a YouTube link, and –

And _one message from Yuuri._

**[23:46] Yuuri ;): It was nice talking to you too! Good night :)**

Yuri’s eyebrow twitched. He unlocked Victor’s phone with ease (the passcode was 6252 – “Maka”). There was a whole string of texts between Victor and Yuuri, the time stamps indicating that they’d had a late-night conversation.

**[21:07] Victor: Your concert was amazing!!! Me and Yura were moved to tears!!!!!! :’)**

**[21:17] Yuuri ;): Thank you! I’m really glad you enjoyed it! I hope you guys weren’t actually crying though haha**

**[21:18] Victor: I DEFINITELY WAS**

**[21:18] Victor: YURA DEFINITELY WAS TOO**

**[21:19] Victor: It was seriously amazing! I can’t wait to pick out my sp music together :D**

**[21:20] Yuuri ;): Haha, alright. Should we discuss it tomorrow then? Maybe Yura can pitch in too**

**[21:21] Victor: Sure!! I’m not sure if he’d like that though**

**[21:23] Yuuri ;): He’ll be happy to help you out! I think you’re really a special person to him**

**[21:24] Yuuri ;): I’m not sure if it’s my place to say this, but I’m really glad you’re there for him. Thank you so much**

“All ready to go!”

Yuri jumped and locked the phone quickly, stuffing it out of sight as Victor swung into the driver’s seat. “What took you so long?” Yuri droned, heart racing, trying to act “normal.” What was a normal response, anyway?

“Come on, Yura, it was only _five minutes,”_ Victor pouted, turning the car on and buckling his seatbelt. “Oh! Tell Yuuri we’re on our way!”

Yuri eyed Victor carefully, immediately reminded of the text conversation he’d just been snooping on. “You can’t tell me what to do.” He did it anyway, of course; it was common sense. Victor pulled away from the curb and they navigated into the light morning traffic.

There were a few minutes of silence as Victor drove, and Yuri tried to fight the awkwardness by staring out the window (and away from Victor). He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. On one hand, Yuuri and Victor were possibly two of the most important people in his life. But Yuuri was _Yuuri,_ and Victor was _Victor,_ and how could the two of them ever work together? And Yuri didn’t want them to be together, but he wasn’t sure why – but he didn’t want them to be together, whether as friends or otherwise.

But what right did he have? Yuuri was so important to him, but surely he was not so important to Yuuri. He was a little kid still. Yuuri had inspired him, but he had never inspired Yuuri. They were friends, but so what? Yuuri had lots of friends, probably, and most of them saw him every day in New York – not to mention the friends and family he left behind in Japan.

Yuri wasn’t anyone particularly great. He was the Junior Worlds Champion, but so what? People didn’t care about that. They cared about names like Victor Nikiforov, Christophe Giacometti, Stephane Lambiel. They knew people like JJ Leroy ( _That fucker!_ Yuri hated him.) and even Georgi Popovich. In comparison, Yuri was just the little Russian kid who was always running after Victor, always trying to catch up.

What a failure.

“We’re here!” cheered Victor happily, breaking Yuri out of his thoughts. “Oh, oh, I see him! Look! It’s Yuuri!”

“I’m not fucking _blind,_ ” Yuri said in response, rolling his eyes. Yuuri was making for them, rolling a suitcase behind him and carrying a backpack on his other shoulder. Victor jumped out of the car, opening the trunk and taking Yuuri’s suitcase for him. Yuri sank lower into his seat. This had been the worst idea _ever._

“Good morning, Yura,” said Yuuri, sliding into the back seat and setting his backpack beside him.

“Yo,” said Yuri, trying to appear and sound completely natural but feeling entirely too self-conscious of every movement he made. Victor, all starry-eyed and pink-cheeked, closed the trunk and popped back into the car.

“Let’s go!” he said, turning the car on and hitting the gas just a tiny bit too hard, sending them lurching forward. Yuri sighed.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

Victor frowned. “Well… it can’t be _that_ hard to find. I’ve been there before – “

Yuri face-palmed. “Wrong direction, you moron.”

They ended up putting the address into Victor’s phone (“Oh, I totally forgot you still had that! Thanks, Yura!”) and letting the built-in navigation guide them through the streets. Victor kept on chattering, clearly trying to get Yuuri to talk as much as he could, and Yuri sank lower and lower into his seat until his neck hurt from being put at such a weird angle. If Victor crashed now, the impact of the seatbelt into his intestines would probably kill him.

Yuuri was apparently thinking the same thing, because he stopped mid-sentence in his reply to Victor’s question and leaned forward. “Yura, sit up. That’s dangerous.”

“ _You’re_ dangerous,” said Yuri lamely, but made a dramatic effort to haul himself back upright. He was starting to feel the awkward silence again, so he said quickly, “I’m going to tell my grandpa we’re almost there. You guys shut up.”

“Okay,” Victor sang, as Yuri put his phone to his ear. The conversation was short. They were about ten minutes away. His grandpa was almost done with a new batch of _pirozhki._ That sounded wonderful. Yes, Yuuri was with them and would surely appreciate it as well. Were they the special ones? Yes, yes they were. That was good. Alright, bye, see you later, love you too.

“ _Katsudon pirozhki_ is the best,” said Yuuri, a little dreamily. “Yura, your grandfather is the _best.”_

“I know,” said Yuri flatly. Victor, as though suddenly having an epiphany, shot upright and slammed on the brakes a little too hard.

“Wait – I forgot to ask! Can you speak Russian, Yuuri?”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “What, do you think he’s fucking _guessing_ at our conversations? Of _course_ he can speak Russian. God, and I thought _I_ was supposed to be the dumb one.”

“That’s so cool!” said Victor, eyes shining. Yuuri blushed red. “Was it hard to learn? Why did you learn it?”

“I… I thought it was cool?”

Yuri snorted. Yuuri turned redder.

“I-I mean, I started learning it after I met Yura, I guess. I’m not that good, but I can handle everyday conversations and stuff.”

Yuri rolled his eyes again. Yuuri was _fluent,_ although he did still have an accent – but he was being modest, like always, and it pissed Yuri off, because Yuuri was amazing and wonderful and yet he didn’t seem to ever see it in himself.

Idiot.

“Wow! Maybe I should learn Japanese! Do you think you could teach me?”

“I… guess so? I mean, it would take a long time.”

“With you as my teacher, I’m sure I’d get it in no time!”

Yuri sighed. It wasn’t that easy to learn a new language – the moron always took everything too lightly. Maybe he’d been wrong about them after all. The two of them _did_ have something in common: their idiocy.

They pulled up soon after, and Yuri was out of the car barely a second after Victor turned it off, unsure of what the strange feeling in his chest was or how to deal with it, but he knew his grandpa could make it better somehow and maybe he would tell him how to fix it. He hurried to the front door and rang the doorbell, hoping his grandpa would answer it before the other two caught up to him.

The door swung open to reveal his grandpa smiling at him. Without even thinking about it, Yuri launched himself into his grandpa’s arms, reveling in the familiar warmth and the faint smell of the body wash he always used. The small, cozy house smelled like _pirozhki_.

“Look how much you’ve grown, Yuratchka,” said his grandpa, and Yuri pulled away, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face. “There’s _pirozhki_ in the kitchen, but don’t eat them all, you hear?”

Yuri stuck his tongue out. “You can’t stop me!”

He heard Victor and Yuuri come in, both greeting his grandpa familiarly, and paid them no mind because the fresh _pirozhki_ were obviously much more important. As promised, they were filled with rice and egg, just the way Yuri remembered. _Katsudon pirozhki,_ Yuri remembered telling his grandpa excitedly, and the next day the strange blend of two cultures was sitting on the countertop, waiting for Yuri to come home from school.

It wasn’t lunchtime yet, so his grandpa insisted that the three “kids” take a seat in the living room as he finished the meal he’d been preparing. Yuuri tried to help, but was quickly shooed out of the kitchen, so they ended up sitting in the living room discussing Victor’s short program music.

“It really _is_ kind of late for this,” Victor admitted, and Yuri rolled his eyes because _yeah, no shit,_ and Yuuri just chuckled. “My free skate music is an aria, so we should find something to go along with that.”

“So would you rather have something melodic, or something intense?”

Victor thought about it. “Intense, probably, or the two will be too similar.”

“Right. And do you want a piano piece or a symphony?”

“Either! I don’t care!”

“I mean, the first thing that comes to mind is Dvorak’s ‘From the New World,’ but I’m not really sure if you could skate to that. A ballet might be a good thing to consider, or something jazzy. I’m actually thinking of a Ghibli song, but I guess that wouldn’t be your thing, and – oh! I’m talking too much, sorry.”

“Not at all, please continue!”

“I always really like Chopin’s stuff, but I don’t know. His Fantasie Impromptu would be an interesting choice to skate too, I suppose. Uh, Liszt has some really cool stuff too. And there are a lot of Tchaikovsky things that are popular.”

“Let’s search everything up!”

Yuri, meanwhile, slouched in an armchair, silently sulking because he’d been excluded. Call him melodramatic or something, but _how rude._ He might as well leave. They probably wouldn’t even notice.

He pulled out his phone instead, occupying himself with scrolling through social media and checking his private messages. Most of them were from fans, and he didn’t bother answering because that was just kind of weird. He went through a bunch of random posts. Slime videos were getting really popular. Weird. That stuff was fucking _weird._ He wanted some.

 

He didn’t usually check his Instagram notifications (except when he knew Victor or Mila had commented or posted something), but he scrolled through them anyway. It was probably a bad idea, he thought, remembering Yakov’s rule about never _ever_ reading others’ criticisms, predictions, discussions, etc. before a competition.

**nikiforov-23 commented on your post: Don’t tell me he’s growing his hair out too? Lol**

That wasn’t a rare comment. Yuri’s hair _had_ grown out the past couple of years, but it wasn’t because he was trying to copy Victor (whose hair had been much, much longer by the time he was Yuri’s age, anyway). There were a lot of comments on it, though, including speculations by reporters that were often mentioned in passing.

_Is Yuri Plisetsky the new Victor Nikiforov? Does he have what it takes to compete against Nikiforov, his rinkmate, when he moves up into the senior division? Let’s compare tonight’s performance to Nikiforov’s, at the same age…_

No; Yuri would never be as skilled or talented or successful as Victor. He _was,_ however, less irritating, if that counted for anything. But the media hadn’t stopped comparing him to Victor since he’d won his first silver in the Junior Grand Prix, and he suspected they wouldn’t stop until either Victor or Yuri retired.

_Mr. Plisetsky, what are your thoughts on your rinkmate and senior, Victor Nikiforov?_

What a stupid question. Yuri’s answer was always more or less the same: _Just wait until I make my senior debut._

His senior debut wasn’t until next year, but even so, it seemed to set the world’s expectations for Yuri much higher than they should’ve been. Once he’d started, though, he couldn’t stop. He had to keep taunting Victor, piling it up higher and higher, until either he failed miserably or he succeeded in winning gold.

In retrospect, this had been some really bad planning on his part.

_You seem confident. What gives you this confidence? Is it your coach, Mr. Feltsman? Or is it your two consecutive wins at the World Championships?_

Confidence. The world believed he was confident, and so he had to be, or he’d betray all their expectations. He had to cover up his awkwardness with a strong front so that maybe they wouldn’t abandon him or think him weak. The world deserved someone better than Yuri Plisetsky, but until that person came along, Yuri would have to try his best to fill the gap left by Victor when he graduated from the junior division, like a temporary place-marker for the audience and media to follow.

 _What do you want to be when you grow up? No, I mean_ after _your skating career – it won’t support you forever. Realistically, not everybody can land thousands of sponsorships and modeling jobs like Mr. Nikiforov. What are you thinking?_

He had no fucking clue. He was a screw-up in pretty much everything, although he was somewhat good at working technology and he was at least above average in ice skating. It didn’t make for a particularly impressive resume. Maybe he’d have to go to college, unlike Victor, because he wasn’t Victor and he never would be.

“… – ra? Yura?”

Yuri blinked and glanced over at Victor, who was waiting expectantly, pink lips still curved upward in a picture-perfect smile, bright blue eyes sparkling from excitement. Yuuri, sitting on the other side of the couch, was smiling too, although his expression was slightly more subdued. “What?” said Yuri. “I wasn’t listening.”

Victor pouted. “Yu _-ra_!”

Yuuri just chuckled. “Would you say Victor should go for something more dramatic and powerful, or something a little less so?”

“He’s so fucking dramatic it hurts to look at him,” Yuri said flatly, gaining himself some more pouty looks and thus proving his own point. “Do the whatever symphony thing. Dvorak.”

“You know Dvorak?” said Yuuri, and Yuri tried to play it off, not wanting the classical expert to think he was trying to make himself seem knowledgeable when he wasn’t. “He didn’t compose that much popular stuff for piano.”

Yuri officially had no clue, because he wasn’t about to say that he actually _liked_ Dvorak’s From the New World Symphony because then Yuuri might think he liked _other_ symphonies, too, or that he knew more than he was letting on. He didn’t, not really. “Whatever. You’re the one who said it.”

“Yes, but – “

“Then it’s decided!” said Victor happily, as Yuri spotted his grandpa entering the room. Thank _fuck,_ he was saved!

They went to eat lunch together, three out of the four people smiling, none the wiser because Yuri always seemed grouchy anyway. Yuri couldn’t help but wish for something to happen – something that would show the world that he was human, too, and an angsty, hormonal teenager at best. But he didn’t want to tell them, and he didn’t want to fail, because he didn’t want to disappoint them.

“Yuratchka, how are your programs coming along?” asked his grandpa, as they stuffed themselves with more _pirozhki_ and some fucking delicious stroganoff. Yuri, for all it was worth, was eating a little slower than he usually did, because he was Growing Up and Wasn’t a Kid Anymore.

Totally.

“They’re fine,” he replied vaguely, not really sure what to say anyway. Yuuri quirked an eyebrow. “Yakov’s going to fucking kill us for skipping two days, though.”

“ _Language,”_ his grandpa chided, and Yuri shrugged. “What about you two? I heard you had a concert last night, Yuuri.”

“Ah, yeah!” Yuuri flushed red. “I mean, it was okay. I think I rushed a little on the etude and my fingers fumbled sometimes, but I guess it was fine. Or at least as good as it might’ve gone.”

Yuri rolled his eyes. Victor said in a childish tone, “So modest, Yuuri! It was amazing!”

“It wasn’t really that – “

“Will you shut up and accept the compliment?” Yuri snapped, not intending to be particularly mean or harsh but a little fed up with Yuuri’s low self-esteem. This wasn’t just being modest, which would’ve been a normal and expected thing to do; this was him degrading his own self-worth and abilities despite what anybody else said.

It was really fucking annoying.

But he didn’t know how to say any of that. To say it harshly would be an awful thing to do and it would surely hurt Yuuri’s feelings. To say it nicely was incredibly awkward and not something Yuri was comfortable doing. He wasn’t going to sit Yuuri down for a fucking pep talk like he was the coach and Yuuri the little kid student who was going places; Yuuri was 22 years old and could handle himself perfectly fine, thank you very much!

They were staring at him. Yuuri’s eyes were wide, and there was a sudden fear coiling in Yuri’s stomach, because _what if he had gone too far?_ Even he knew he was the crowned king of saying things in a manner he didn’t really mean. What if Yuuri had taken offense? What if he was sad now?

What if he would never forgive Yuri? What if –

He had ruined everything. He had ruined the lunch that was supposed to be a cheerful, happy reunion. He was ruining happiness and he hated it, and he was probably ruining the beautiful piece of music Yuuri had recorded just for him, and that wasn’t fair to anybody watching, nor to Yakov or Victor or his grandpa, and least of all to Yuuri and Frederic Chopin, who was probably rolling in his grave.

What a failure.

He stared at Yuuri with wide eyes as the weight of his outburst crashed down on him, and all he could think was, _what have I done?_

And then Yuuri smiled and said, “Maybe you’re right, Yura. Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed my concert.”

Yuri could’ve cried, but he didn’t, because he needed to be strong for everyone who expected him to be strong, because that was how the world worked even if he hated it. So instead, he stabbed at his plate and said, “Whatever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the IRONYYYYYYY


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri and Victor are too alike in both pride and their tendency to start drama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuri does a lot of piece analysis (partly because I think it's important, but also because I'm a pianist myself) and it occurred to me that I should link the pieces for you in case you're interested.  
> His FS music: Chopin Ballade 4 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tmQSWuYwrI). I imagine that Yuuri would play the beginning few sections and then jump to about 7:07 in this recording. He would stop before the coda section, around 9:35. I think the FS required time limits are around 4-4:30 so that should work out okay, Yuuri would just be cutting and pasting a little which isn't too hard. I'm learning this piece and I really like it :)  
> His SP music: Chopin Waltz in A Minor, posthumous (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HtQRpmaaiCo). Some versions are longer than others (and it's very repetitive) so I figured it wouldn't be too hard to tailor it to match the 2:50 time limit. I chose this piece because 1. it's short, and 2. it fits the timeline - in other words, Yuuri could very well have been at this level when Yuri met him.

Yuuri had once written to him in a letter that music had its own soul – that it was a universal language – that you had to understand it to be able to properly portray it in any way. He had said that there was a story behind every piece of music, every song, every melody.

Yuri had given up on the piano in favor of focusing on skating when he was eight years old, but it didn’t mean he didn’t understand. He was a skater. He danced to the music – flowed with it, swayed with it, spun with it.

On the train home, he listened to the Chopin Ballade – the entire ten minutes of it – over and over on repeat, ignoring Victor’s rambling as he talked about Yuuri, the train, food, Yuuri, classical music, skating, Yakov, Yuuri, Instagram, and Yuuri. Yuri tried to understand the music, give new meaning to it, come up with his own story.

It started out quietly, from a distance, coming closer and closer, quietly, softly, peacefully. The melody that arose out of that was in a minor key, a little mysterious, a little haunting, each phrase trailing off but noticeably left unfinished with the light touch of the pianist’s finger. If you were waiting for a resolution, you never really got one; it just kept going, rolling over on itself, because time didn’t stop for anybody.

It built on itself like a set of variations on a theme, growing thicker and thicker and more complicated and more desperate with more and more power from the left hand, from the lower notes and the bass line. What had started out as a quiet melody now escalated into something so much bigger, so much more complicated, so much more desperate. But one thing hadn’t changed: it was still unfinished.

And then it calmed down for a second to go into a major section that was a little lighter, a little happier, a little more _fun,_ before fading back into the first melody with its peaceful imagery and lightly-placed notes.

There was a thin section that sounded like it was hanging on by the tips of its figurative fingertips, and then it went into a crazy, desperate section that was really a variation on the main theme, and this was where Yuri’s free skate music started. It was important to understand that this was not the beginning – that so much had happened before it. And the next section always seemed to Yuri like a projection of its deepest wishes – a “what could’ve been” sort of section, a section that spoke of regret and despair.

Yuri thought of his early life with his parents, the sunlight streaming in through the window, his mother’s voice gently cooing him from the depths of slumber because it was time for dinner. But nothing good could last forever, at least not in his life, and then there was the fight to save his mother’s life that they never won, never succeeded at. There was the despair and the shattering of his world, and then his father couldn’t take it anymore and left Yuri all alone by himself even though he loved him – right?

His grandpa was nice and kind, though, and he raised Yuri like his own kid, and Yuri smiled again and started skating lessons and met Yuuri by chance on a cold winter day. His world brightened.

The section that he was skating to was unfinished, which was actually very consistent with the entire theme of the piece, and now, when Yuri listened to it, he thought of everything that had happened before that nobody could see.

The audience would not know the beginning of the piece – the history – all that had happened before this one section that was crying to the Heavens. Likewise, they wouldn’t know Yuri’s past – all that had happened before he became Yuri Plisetsky, Junior World Champion. They wouldn’t know about Yuri’s parents or his grandpa or Yuuri Katsuki. They wouldn’t know how hard Yuri struggled to become somebody who was worth it, or how much he tried to forget the dark times as his father succumbed to the dark pit of despair.

And most of all, they wouldn’t know how much Yuri hated himself, hated his sharp mouth and his pride, hated how melodramatic he could be and how worthless he really was, behind his strong façade.

They wouldn’t know, when they got to the latter section of his FS music, how much Yuri wished his mother hadn’t lost her battle, or how much he wished his father hadn’t lost his. They wouldn’t know that he wished he could be a normal teenager who complained about his parents’ strict rules and curfews. They wouldn’t know what could’ve been, or what was lost, or that Yuri had tried to pretend it hadn’t happened until his illusion was shattered by government officials and policemen.

“I think you can win with this, Yura,” Yakov said to him a few days later, and normally Yuri would’ve snapped back that of _course he would win, this was the Juniors’ Division for fuck’s sake,_ but this time he didn’t and instead stayed quiet because it didn’t seem right to comment that on a program that was about Yuri’s entire life.  

 Victor had started to choreograph his short program after obtaining a recording of the Dvorak, and it suited him well, big and powerful and majestic, because Victor was an anomaly that represented the future – _From the New World._ Victor gave the world someone to look up to, somewhere to go from here, countless new possibilities and ideas and concepts.

“What should I do to surprise the audience?” Victor mused, looking over his handwritten list of components. Yuri said,

“Put your quad flip at the end.”

There was a moment of silence. “Yura, you know I don’t have the stamina for that. I don’t think it’s possible.”

Yuri said, “Don’t be an idiot. You’re skating this for Katsudon, aren’t you? Just like your free skate.”

Victor said, “I’d love to do it for him, but I don’t really think I can – “

“If you can’t, nobody can,” said Yuri stubbornly. “You know you can’t surprise anyone anymore. But you can give people a _goal._ ”

Victor’s expression was, for once, unreadable. Yuri started to feel that panic again, like when he’d lashed out at Yuuri, but he kept his straight face and looked Victor in the eye because _fuck it,_ this was important to him and every other skater out there. Somebody had to say it, and it might as well be Yuri, who already said too much shit anyway.

“Nobody’s going to think it’s possible,” Yuri continued, trying to sound undaunted but positively squirming on the inside, “until somebody does it. None of the younger skaters will – will even _try_ until you do.”

“I’m old,” said Victor, a little tiredly, sounding a little frustrated but not particularly angry at Yuri (which was good). “The younger generation – “

“ – needs someone to inspire them,” Yuri interrupted. “You’re Victor Nikiforov, four-time Grand Prix winner. You already hold almost all the records. You won the fucking _Olympics._ You’re pushing for change and progress – “

“And what if I can’t live up to their expectations, Yura?” Victor exploded, flailing his arms, and Yuri’s eyes widened. “I’m Victor Nikiforov. I’m a man, not a god. I can’t keep winning just for the sake of winning, just because _people want me to._ I can’t always be infallible! I’m not! You said it yourself – I can’t surprise anyone anymore!”

There were a million emotions running through Yuri’s mind, a million responses that he didn’t say. _Living up to expectations?_ Sounded familiar. The fall was inevitable, because no human could fly high forever. It just wasn’t possible. Humans were not gods, and if they ever tried to be, nature would surely strike them down.

So Yuri understood, but he didn’t want to understand, because all his life he had looked up to Yuuri and Victor because they were, quite frankly, fucking amazing and he could only hope to be like that one day. He didn’t want to think of a day when Victor wasn’t in front of him anymore, leading the way, crashing through expectations and barriers like a whirlwind, inspiring young skaters all over the world.

But then there was a little voice in his head that said, _You’re trying so hard. Is it unreasonable to want Victor to try just as hard as you? To try to keep up his façade, just like you are? Is that wrong?_

Was it wrong?

Was it?

Victor wasn’t a failure, unlike Yuri. If he wanted to do it, he could do it. So it frustrated Yuri to no end that Victor wasn’t taking advantage of his abilities – the very abilities that every single other skater wished they had – and was instead starting to give up even though everybody believed he could do it.

They stared at each other, big blue eyes meeting narrowed green ones, and then Yuri said, “Whatever.”

What else could he say?

He told Yuuri what Victor had said, later that night, and Yuuri’s eyes grew big and concerned. “He’s just cracking under pressure,” said Yuuri. “I mean, I get that. He can’t be perfect.”

“He’s _not,_ ” Yuri grumbled, thinking of all the stupid things Victor had done in the past. “But he can’t just _give up._ That’s not right.”

“Well, he can,” said Yuuri, raising one eyebrow. “I know Victor’s important to you, Yura, but you can’t expect him to be ‘great’ forever. He’s growing, just like you. He’s already past the age most skaters peak at, isn’t he?”

Yuri slammed his fist down on the table. “He _hasn’t peaked,”_ he hissed, and Yuuri’s eyes were soft and full of sympathy and he hated it. “He’s given up. He can do it, if he wants to, just like how you went to Juilliard and graduated and played a concert in Moscow.”

“Pianists don’t struggle with aging,” Yuuri pointed out, but it was a weak argument and they both knew it. “And even so, I haven’t won any world awards. Nobody expects me to be the best. I feel like you would understand this better than me, Yura, so I’m not really sure why you’re – “

“I _do_ ,” said Yuri, “but at least I _try,_ even when I don’t think I can do it, because people like you and Victor expect me to.”

“And the rest of the world,” Yuuri pointed out, and suddenly Yuri wondered if the older man actually understood more about Yuri than he was letting on. “I know it’s upsetting to see an idol fall, but he’s human.”

“I don’t care,” Yuri declared stubbornly. “If I have to try so hard, then so does he, and fuck what anybody else thinks. I’m going to take gold in Juniors, and then I’ll move up to the Senior Division and beat him for the gold and then maybe he’ll be motivated and try harder and – “

“Yura, think about this for a moment – “

“ – _fuck_ whatever stupid fucking thoughts he’s having about retirement because _I won’t fucking let him!”_

Yuuri looked tired. “Yura, please. You don’t control him. He doesn’t owe you anything.”

_He doesn’t owe you anything._

In other words, he had no obligation to Yuri or to anybody else to continue being the best. Once he wasn’t doing it for himself anymore, he was free to quit, because he owed the world nothing.

“I’m going to bed,” said Yuri, frustrated and hurt and angry at himself and at Victor and at Yuuri but mostly at himself but then also at Victor and Yuuri for trying to talk _sense_ into him when he just wanted someone to agree –

“Yura, wait – “

Yuri slammed his laptop closed and sat there, breathing heavily, trying to hold tears of frustration or anger or sadness or _whatever it was_ back. Potya crawled into his lap and he stroked her soft fur, trying to sort out his own thoughts. Why did he want Victor to keep going? What was the real reason? What was the thing he couldn’t stand seeing?

“What do you think, girl?” said Yuri softly, rubbing Potya behind the ears and then on the cheek. She purred and licked his hand. “What am I afraid of?”

He wasn’t really afraid of losing Victor as a motivation, because there was always Yuuri and Yuuri would never give up on music.

He went to sleep with the matter weighing heavily on his mind, and when he woke up in the morning, he realized what it was with a sudden, absolute clarity:

He didn’t want to see Victor fall in front of the entire world.

***

It was August, finally, which meant the start of the JGP qualifiers. Yuri had been assigned to Latvia in August and Croatia in October, so he didn’t have a lot of time before the first one but had a spectacular window between the two qualifiers.

He and Yakov were fine-tuning his programs every day. Although his spat with Victor was still unresolved and tensions ran high between them, Yuri tried not to let this affect his performance, and he pushed himself to his limits, telling himself that this was for Yuuri, this was for Yuuri, _this was for Yuuri_ because he didn’t know what else to do.

He and Yakov travelled to Riga, Latvia a few days before the competition began. Yuri felt unsettled, even more so than he usually did before a competition, and couldn’t help but think about how cold Victor was to him now. Neither of them had made a move since that day, despite Yuuri’s prodding on both sides, and so now they were stuck in a battle with their own pride.

They got in a taxi to go to the hotel and picked up their room keys at the front desk. The rest of the afternoon and evening were completely free, so Yuri holed up in his room and tried to remember all the little details he’d been working on with Yakov to tighten his programs.

**[17:03] Katsudon: You landed already, right? How was your flight?**

**[17:05] Yuri: fine, food sucked though**

**[17:05] Yuri: no idea what to do now**

**[17:06] Katsudon: Did you make up with Victor yet? =.=**

**[17:07] Yuri: nope**

**[17:08] Yuri: no time**

**[17:08] Katsudon: How about right now? You just said you have nothing to do**

**[17:09] Katsudon: Come on, I’ve talked to him too and I think he misses you a lot. You’re just both too stubborn to make the first move**

**[17:10] Yuri: u make it sound like a fucking love confession**

**[17:11] Katsudon: Haha, that’s not what I meant and you know it. Besides, wouldn’t it make you feel better if you were competing knowing Victor’s cheering you on?**

Yuuri was insinuating, probably unintentionally, that Victor _wouldn’t_ cheer Yuri on if they didn’t resolve things. Yuri wondered if he was right. Was Victor that mad? Yuuri kept trying to convince Yuri that he _wasn’t,_ and that they were just stubborn and that Victor would support him either way. But it suddenly occurred to Yuri that maybe Yuuri was wrong.

**[17:13] Katsudon: Yura?**

**[17:15] Yuri: whatever**

**[17:16] Katsudon: Sorry for pushing you like that**

**[17:22] Katsudon: Do you forgive me?**

**[17:26] Katsudon: Yura, are you ignoring me?**

**[18:03] Katsudon: Yura?**

***

The next morning dawned surprisingly bright and early, waking Yuri before his alarm went off. He rolled out of bed groggily and got ready for the day, remembering that he had to meet Yakov downstairs for breakfast before they headed to the rink.

The competition wouldn’t start until tomorrow, so the day before was usually spent strategically at the rink as competitors from all over the world worked out little details in their programs. Yuri pulled on his usual black training uniform and reached for his hoodie and standard “Russia” jacket that he got just for being a representative at international competitions.

His skating bag slung over his shoulder, he exited his hotel room and checked his phone as he waited for the elevator. Yuuri’s texts from the previous night were still unopened on his lockscreen, and he decided to deal with them later. Emotions were a pain in the ass to deal with, after all.

Yakov was waiting for him at one of the tables in the ballroom where the hotel hosted their free breakfast and looked up as Yuri dumped his skate bag on the floor by the table carelessly. “Get something to eat, and then we leave in twenty minutes,” Yakov said.

He got himself a simple breakfast of eggs and sausage and then grabbed a slice of toast while he was at it. The breakfast here was fairly Western, probably to accommodate the wide range of guests who were staying at this hotel for the Grand Prix series.

He debated replying to Yuuri’s texts but never quite got around to it. He jogged to the rink as a warm-up, leaving his skating gear with Yakov, who was strolling along some ways behind him. The rink was close, only a few blocks away from the event’s official hotel, and Yuri wasn’t even out of breath when he reached it.

As he went through his step sequences slowly under Yakov’s watchful eye, Yuri couldn’t quite shake the weariness off of him, feeling as though he was turning fifty instead of sixteen next year. It was certainly an unfortunate feeling for an athlete, but he didn’t dare tell Yakov, knowing that his coach would blame it on his lack of sleep even though Yuri had slept long and well the previous night.

Then he remembered Yuuri’s unopened texts on his phone and frowned, losing his concentration and nearly crashing into another skater (who looked very scared of him and ran off quickly). Was that it? Was he feeling guilty?

Or was it the whole issue with Victor that was just taking a toll on his mind in general?

He practiced a few jumps as the morning went on. Yakov only let him do a few triples, so he spent most of his time drilling his singles and doubles, which went about as well as could be expected. They went back to step sequences after that, because step sequences were Yuri’s greatest enemy and the reason could perhaps be attributed to the fact that they were also Victor’s greatest technical weakness.

 _Fuck,_ the problem with being an ice skater was that wherever he went, wherever he looked, whatever was being said, he was always reminded of Victor. Victor was everywhere in the skating world because he was _the man_ – the man to watch, the man to idolize, the man to chase after until you either gave up or succeeded. It was irritating at best and infuriating at worst and Yuri didn’t know whether he wanted to erase Victor from his memory or call him and ask if he would watch Yuri skate tomorrow.

**[12:18] Katsudon: Just talk to him before tomorrow**

He left the new text unopened, just like the others, trying not to think about the disappointed expression what was probably on Yuuri’s face, trying really hard not to think about whether or not Victor was trying not to think about him, too. He pushed it away, burying it under layers and layers of emotional distress, bringing to the forefront of his mind a new band he’d discovered recently instead. And then he socialized about as well as he _could_ socialize with some of his fellow junior skaters and they talked about Victor and he wanted to be anywhere but there.

Now that he’d identified the feeling, it was slowly growing into an unmeasurable pain, aching somewhere in his chest and refusing to let him forget. Yakov patted him on the shoulder after practicing for one more hour that afternoon and told him to relax for the rest of the day, gruffly telling Yuri that he was confident he’d do well in the competition tomorrow and not to worry too much.

Yuri wondered whether Yakov always said these things to Victor, too.

It was like one crisis after another with Yuri; he could never seem to escape the melodrama that came with being a teenager competing at an international level. Victor had likely been the same, but Victor was different because he was _Victor._

“I have to say that Victor Nikiforov will forever be my idol,” said a vaguely familiar skater from the US, smiling a little sheepishly. There was a low murmur of agreement amongst their small group as they sat in the locker rooms, taking off their equipment and putting on appropriate clothing for the weather outside. “But you’re lucky, Yuri, getting to train beside him all the time.”

“Victor is _awesome,_ ” chimed in some guy from Canada, eyes wide. “I wish I could be like him.”

“If only I could get my quads as clean as him.” A sigh. “His English is so good, too. The media loves him.”

“In Japan, we idolize Yuzuru Hanyu, but I think it goes without saying that we all wish we could have Victor’s technical ability and charisma.”

“Yuzuru’s performance scores are always ridiculously high, though.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“He just doesn’t have that charm that Victor has. I mean, I guess that’s opinion, though.”

“Right? Wouldn’t it be great if we could just – “

“Shut up,” Yuri snapped, slamming the locker closed and shouldering his gym bag. The locker room fell into a stunned silence. Yuri, whose nerves were already on edge, kept going, because he couldn’t take back his words now. “You guys will _never_ be Victor.”

“Hey, now,” said one of the Americans, standing up to block Yuri’s path to the door. “What are you saying? You think you’re better than us? You’ll be the next Victor?”

Yuri could potentially have spat in his face or insulted him further, but he didn’t, because his chest ached uncontrollably. “No,” he said, and everyone looked surprised. “I will never be Victor, either. I don’t… I _can’t._ You don’t _get_ it.”

He pushed his way out of the locker room, heart beating fast, chest hurting, feeling like he was suffocating. Victor was like a whirlwind, always so carefree and easygoing and yet meticulous and melodramatic over small things. But these things made him all the more _human_ to the audience, and so they loved him more and more until he could never do any wrong in their eyes.

People couldn’t just _pretend_ to be like that. They couldn’t ever hope to surpass someone when they still idolized them. As long as they pretended Victor was perfect, they could never hope to be like him, because nobody was perfect and Victor was unmistakably human.

 _Just talk to him before tomorrow,_ Yuuri’s voice chided in his head as he made it back to the hotel. But what would he say?

_Hey Victor, I still think you’re a fucking idiot but, like, whatever, it’s not my life. I’ll show you what you’re missing when I get to the Senior Division, you moron._

Yeah, that would go well.

 _Look, Victor, I guess I said some stuff that wasn’t my place to say. I get it. I really understand – blegh_ , that was _awful_ and Yuri didn’t even want to imagine saying it. _Ew._ Besides, something like that was so out of character for Yuri that it would probably worry Victor more than the apology would satisfy him.

He wished, not for the first time, that he could read minds. That would make life so much easier.

He lay on his bed in his hotel room, where it was quiet and he couldn’t help hearing his own thoughts. He didn’t like mulling over things like this. He didn’t like thinking about things he didn’t want to think about, but in a situation like this, there was nothing else to think about.

Yuuri’s sister, when they’d first met, had shouted something about how he resembled a member of her favorite band. Out of curiosity, he had looked them up afterward (not that he would admit it) and they were pretty cool, actually. He could see how he looked like Takao, but the difference was that Takao was big and strong and confident and _actually kinda fucking cool_ , and Yuri was none of those things even if he wished he could be.

Takao, he thought, would have no problem sorting things out with Victor. Come to think of it, Mari wouldn’t either, given her laid-back personality and systematic way of doing things that included getting straight to the point when she had a conversation. Yuuri, one of the most timid people he knew, would probably have approached Victor long before this. Even Yuuko, the woman who ran the ice rink in Yuuri’s hometown, would surely patch things up rather than leaving them to simmer and hoping the pot wouldn’t catch on fire.

He slept uneasily that night, tossing and turning and having dreams where he was suffocating and drowning and he could _see_ the surface, he could almost touch it, but he could never escape the vortex that whirled around him, the chasm that he himself had created, the trap that fell into nothingness. When he woke up, he felt as though he hadn’t slept at all, and Yakov told him as much.

_Does Victor even remember that I compete today?_

He ate breakfast downstairs with Yakov again, a little robotically, feeling just as tired as he looked. His limbs were heavy and his mind felt sluggish, as though someone had tied it to the ground. It didn’t go unnoticed at all by Yakov, who said, “How much sleep did you get last night? Don’t tell me you were on your phone.”

“I wasn’t,” said Yuri, and that was the truth. Yakov softened after that, perhaps understanding something from the way Yuri was acting and responding – or maybe he couldn’t figure out what to say, either, because Yakov couldn’t _force_ Yuri to snap out of whatever it was.

**[11:04] Katsudon: Davai!!! Gambatte!!! You’ll do great!!**

The competition started in the afternoon. Yakov said, as Yuri warmed up and did his stretches, “I don’t know what’s bothering you, but this isn’t like you. Go out there and do your best.”

Yuri contemplated justifying him with an actual answer, but it was all too long and complicated, so he said, “Whatever.”

Yakov left him alone. Yuri couldn’t blame him.

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, and he pulled it out as he sat in a perfect split. He hadn’t checked it since noon.

**[12:44] Katsudon: I can’t wait to see what your SP music is! Do your best :)**

**[14:53] Victor: Good luck**

**[14:54] Victor: We’ll be watching**

**[14:57] Victor: Don’t overrotate your 3T, it’s become a habit of yours since you learned the 4**

And then, almost as an afterthought:

**[15:03] Victor: But you can do better on that combination**

A light, bubbly feeling arose in his chest, and he wanted to laugh all of a sudden. He had to get ready to go out, since the first skater would be done soon and the second was already waiting in the wings. His thumbs flew over the screen.

**[15:05] Yuri: thx katsudon**

**[15:05] Yuri: watch yakov’s face very carefully**

And then he was striding out of the locker room, feeling five times lighter, his head suddenly clear and his muscles ready to do what he’d come here for. Yakov nodded and patted him on the shoulder as he came to stand beside him. The second skater went onto the ice in preparation for his program to start as the first skater waited in the kiss-and-cry.

The second skater was the one from the US who’d started the conversation about Victor yesterday, and Yuri could absolutely see that inspiration in his moves. He was trying to copy Victor, to some extent, with his flared fingertips and the way he dramatized his movements while keeping his jumps tight and clean. Yuri could _see_ Victor’s influence in his skating and wondered if it showed in his own.

It was a fairly impressive program, Yuri supposed, but adrenaline was rushing through him now and all he could think was, _I can do better._ The world was watching. Victor was watching. Yuuri was watching. He would destroy his competition and, as he’d promised himself about a month earlier, he would prove to the world two things: that Victor was the best, and that Yuuri was amazing.

He took off his skate guards and handed them to Yakov, who gruffly wished him good luck and told him to focus on his step sequences. Acknowledging this with a brief nod, Yuri glided onto the ice as the previous skater came off of it. He was ready for this. He could do this.

His short program music was another piece by Chopin, as though to complete a set, but this one was much simpler than the ballade. It was his Waltz in A Minor, posthumous – meaning it’d been published after his death.

It was also the piece that Yuuri had been playing on the piano when they’d first met, all those years ago, on a cold evening in Moscow.

Compared to the amazing things Yuuri was playing now, this waltz was undoubtedly _easy_ , meant to be played by people with four or five years on the piano, with a simple and repetitive melody and a clear harmony. But it held meaning to Yuri, and maybe to Yuuri as well, because this was the piece that had started the friendship Yuri held closest to his heart.

He wondered if Yuuri remembered.

His theme for this season was “stage-worthy,” and he thought his programs justified that theme in multiple ways. First, he was dancing across the ice better than ever before, gliding and leaping and spinning, aiming for the gold before he made his senior debut next year. Second, both of his music choices were essentially an ode to Yuuri, who was undoubtedly “stage-worthy” but never seemed to believe it himself. And third, although surely nobody would pick up on it, he was demonstrating that inspiration could go a long way.

He opened up his body as he skated, trying to emanate a sort of welcoming and warm aura that he rarely did. This was a dance, after all, and he couldn’t dance _alone._ So he waltzed with his memories, with Yuuri, with Victor… with the audience, the judges, the other skaters, the coaches. He waltzed with his grandpa and his parents, who were surely proud of him even if they couldn’t tell him so, and he waltzed with his childhood and the memories he held dear to his heart.

His jumps were clean, and surprisingly, so were his step sequences. There was a double/triple combination near the end of his program, which had been placed there because Yuri was generally pretty good with landing combination jumps and so they planned it toward the end to glean some extra points wherever possible.

_You can do better._

Victor’s voice ran through his head, and Yuri silently agreed with him because yeah, he _could_ do better and he _would._

They had planned a triple Salchow into a triple toe loop, but Victor was goading him and Yuri was letting him do it, letting the king of skating push him further and further. As long as Victor was there, Yuri and the other skaters would continue to push themselves, always chasing after Victor’s back, trying to surpass their own limits and capacities.

Victor – _the_ Victor Nikiforov – believed he could do better.

He launched himself into the combination, turning the Salchow into a lutz with relative ease. Going into a triple toe loop from a triple lutz was undoubtedly harder on his body than entering it from Salchow would’ve been, but he could do it and he would do it and the entire world was watching but not really because this wasn’t even the final and he was still in the Junior Division –

But he landed it flawlessly and the crowd went wild anyway and he was riding on a high as he went into his last spin and Yakov was face-palming but smiling anyway.

“What the hell?” said Yakov, as he came off the ice. “Vitya is enough. I don’t need you to be like him.”

“You’re already going bald anyway,” said Yuri, trying to act as though he wasn’t positively elated at his own performance (well, some of the elements could’ve been cleaner and he wished he’d relaxed a little more in his step sequences) by putting on his usual unimpressed face.

Yakov grumbled something under his breath and ushered Yuri to the kiss-and-cry, where they awaited his scores. Yuri glanced at the scoreboard. The two skaters before him had done pretty well, landing at 78.87 and 77.24 respectively. He itched to pull out his phone and ask Victor how he’d done, but he didn’t and sat there as motionlessly as he could, his fingers twitching a little and tapping against the wooden bench.

“And we have the scores for Yuri Plisetsky,” said the announcer, his voice booming through the huge stadium. Yuri held his breath, trying not to expect too much, but how could he? “And his total segment score is… 83.48! He is currently in first place!”

Yuri smiled as Yakov patted his shoulder approvingly. It was the highest short program score he’d ever gotten, even at last year’s Worlds (82.34), and he felt happiness well up inside of him because surely, _surely,_ Victor and Yuuri and his grandpa were proud of him. He was sure he could do better – he _had_ to keep getting better to make the podium next year, or even at this year’s Worlds – but for now, he was more than satisfied with breaking his own record.

“Congratulations,” said Yakov, and Yuri smiled for the cameras and the reporters as they stuck microphones in his face and asked so many questions at the same time that he had no idea what they were saying anymore. But he had done well and he was happy, so he sort of answered a few quick questions he could pick out and then let Yakov usher him away.

**[15:27] Katsudon: I can’t believe you picked that piece!!**

**[15:27] Katsudon: What a perfect 3A, even I can tell. The commentators on TV are going crazy already**

**[15:27] Victor: Have you been working on your step sequences?? Why are they so clean**

**[15:27] Victor: Also is this music supposed to mean something to Yuuri?**

**[15:28] Katsudon: So proud <3**

**[15:28] Victor: Fc needs to be tighter**

**[15:29] Victor: DUDE**

**[15:29] Victor: YES**

**[15:29] Victor: YAKOV LOOKS FURIOUS I’M DYING**

**[15:29] Katsudon: Apparently you take after Victor in your rebellious nature**

**[15:30] Victor: Well done Yura! You did so well!**

**[15:30] Katsudon: Ahhhhhh your score’s going to be so high if the commentators are right**

**[15:30] Katsudon: I assume they’re right since otherwise they wouldn’t be hired? I think?**

**[15:31] Victor: Is Yakov yelling at you? You can blame it on me, he won’t even be surprised**

**[15:32] Victor: WHAT A NICE SCORE**

**[15:32] Katsudon: You did it!!! Congratulations!!!!!!!! ^o^**

**[15:32] Victor: SEE THE 3LZ WAS WORTH IT**

**[15:32] Victor: TELL YAKOV**

Without directly touching on the subject, Yuri’s dilemma had been resolved. There was an unspoken understanding between them that they were both sorry, that they both understood each other’s overreactions and would put it behind them. Yuri wasn’t sure if this was at all due to Yuuri’s interference, but he supposed it didn’t really matter now.

Yuri ended up in first place at the end of the day and would skate last for the free skate portion of the competition, which would give him plenty of time to work himself into a frenzy and psych himself out. His free skate was so important to him and he didn’t want to mess it up, but for now he told himself that it would be fine and that stressing about it wouldn’t help.

So he carried on like he always did, head held high, going with the flow for once instead of against it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the scores and Yuri's mentioned program components from the published 2017 junior world championship scoresheets online :3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri makes a rival and is subsequently exposed to another flaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! long chapter but with this, the "introduction" is wrapped up. I think I've set the premise for Yuri's eventual growth and his advancement in future relationships, etc. etc.   
> also i've been screaming about this everywhere but I can't get over V's route I'm on day 7 and dying omg

His free skate was a lot less exciting, even though he had been intending for it to be something great and majestic and… revolutionary, he supposed. But his nerves got the best of him, and he ended up focusing so much on the technical components that none of what the program _meant_ to him actually ended up showing itself to the audience.

Nevertheless, his technical components carried him through, and he ended up on the podium with a gold medal around his neck, smiling for the cameras since, well, he couldn’t say he was _unhappy_ to be in this spot. With this win, he was almost guaranteed to go to the final, as long as he didn’t completely screw up in Croatia.

He returned to St. Petersburg with a neutral air, happy to have won but a little disappointed at his free skate. His rinkmates, however, didn’t seem to care (or didn’t know at all what _could’ve_ been) and welcomed him back enthusiastically. Victor, who had shoved their argument behind him, lifted Yuri up in the air like a proud parent to a little kid (neither was accurate). Yuri squirmed and yelled and everything was back to normal.

“For the most part,” said Yakov thoughtfully, “you need to keep working on your step sequences and your spins. The flying camel could’ve been better, in your short program.”

Victor had said the same thing, so Yuri shrugged and accepted it as fact. Little details usually made a big difference in competition, especially when it came to presentation scores and tight landings, so Yuri jumped headlong into refining his programs as well as he could before Croatia in October.

At the same time, he went back to school in September and sat through hours of class every day, which was fucking awful and basically torture. He found himself doodling stupid, ugly pictures of Victor’s face (though he wouldn’t blame the results on his art skills) and dealing with new classmates. They were in secondary school now, which was theoretically optional in Russia, but Yuuri and his grandpa had both strongly advocated that he continue his education in case he needed it in the future. So here Yuri was, stuck in a classroom with a bunch of other kids who wouldn’t shut up about absolutely meaningless things like _love._

For fuck’s sake, they were _fifteen._ Who cared about love?

There was also the now-expected event that occurred at the beginning of almost every school year, which usually consisted of a few new classmates who had no idea what Yuri was like in person. The knowledge that Yuri Plisetsky was an internationally-known figure skater was not exactly uncommon, but he supposed he seemed a lot “cooler” in interviews than he was in real life.

This year was no different. A girl and a guy walked into the room, looked around, spotted Yuri, and came up to him asking if he was Yuri Plisetsky, the skater. Yuri said yes, a little bluntly, because what else was he supposed to say?

“I watched you skate on television,” the girl gushed. “You’re really good! Oh, sorry, I’m Katerina. Nice to meet you! Looks like we’ll be classmates this year.”

Yuri eyed her, never sure how to respond to fans that he would see every day. “Uh, yeah,” he said lamely, hoping she wouldn’t take offense but also hoping she would go away so that he wouldn’t be stuck in this awkward situation any longer.

“Can I have an autograph? Sorry, you must get asked this all the time.”

Taking into account the fact that just about everybody had Yuri’s autograph at this point, he shrugged and signed a piece of paper and gave it to her. The guy standing beside her kind of forced a smile at Yuri and said, “I’m Alexei. Uh, I think I’ve seen you skate before too. You’re… good? I think?”

“No you haven’t,” said Yuri without thinking, and Alexei’s cheeks flushed a little at being caught. Yuri tried to backtrack but quickly realized there was no way out of it. “Whatever. It’s fine.”

“Sorry,” Alexei mumbled and wandered away to find a seat. Katerina gave Yuri one last smile and wandered off too, chasing after Alexei. Yuri was torn between relief and regret.

Their first period teacher walked in, did a brief introduction, and then started talking about the rest of the year. Yuri was already bored to tears and decided to plan out the free skate program with the highest score that he could (probably) manage. Of course, he included two quads, which meant that he would not be practicing this program under Yakov’s watchful eye anytime soon.

**[11:25] Yuri: I fucking hate school why am I here**

**[14:38] Katsudon: Because learning is good**

**[14:40] Yuri: learning is fucking boring**

**[14:41] Katsudon: Shouldn’t you be in class?**

After classes ended, there was a sort of club fair, where all the clubs set up stands and tried to rope in people. Yuri ignored them all and went straight to the rink, where Mila was wrapping up her session with Yakov. Victor was there too, lacing up his skates, and greeted Yuri happily.

“How was school?” he said, and Yuri threw him a glare.

“Fucking awful,” he said, “but _you_ wouldn’t know, because _you_ never went to secondary school.”

Victor smiled sheepishly. “Uh, yeah, that’s true.”

Victor, like many other professional athletes, had chosen his sport over secondary education. Yuri might’ve been stubborn and done the same, but he doubted he would last as long as Victor; ice skaters peaked early, after all. Victor, who had yet to hit his peak, was still going strong.

Well, Yuri believed that Victor could do better, but it seemed like nobody else did. There were a lot of articles already speculating that Victor would retire soon.

“Be here on Saturday,” Yakov instructed them later that evening, causing Yuri’s eyebrows to rise. “And don’t be late, or it’ll be fifty laps the next practice, you hear me?”

“Sure, Yakov,” said Victor cheerily, without a care in the world, making Yakov sigh heavily. Yuri frowned.

“What’s on Saturday?”

Victor chuckled as Yakov groaned and turned away in exasperation. “It’s the little masterclass thing, Yura,” said Victor, and then Yuri thought maybe he remembered Yakov mentioning this a few times… or maybe not. “There’ll be people from all over Russia and even other countries, since we’re famous.”

“ _You’re_ famous,” said Yuri, for once not using it as a retort but rather as a fact. “They’re here because _you’re_ famous, not us. They won’t give a shit about junior skaters, anyway. Whatever. I’ll be here, or whatever.”

He spun on his heel, making for the door and sighing as he remembered the ungodly amount of math homework he had to do tonight. Teachers apparently didn’t take _I’m an internationally-known figure skater_ as an excuse for being late on assignments, which really was a fucking shame because there weren’t enough hours in the day and Yuri had just spent four hours at the rink.

“Wait up!” he heard Victor call from behind him, and then they were walking down the street side-by-side – a common sight, really, but probably still something that would be remarkable to whoever was lame enough to attend the thing on Saturday.

Okay, in all honesty, he probably would’ve come too, had he not already been Yakov’s student. But that wasn’t important.

“Where are you rushing off to?” asked Victor, digging into his pockets for his bus pass as they approached the stop. “Oh, don’t tell me – _homework_?”

“Fuck off,” said Yuri irritably, wanting to smack the smug look off his face. Victor chuckled. They walked on in silence, scanning their bus passes when the right bus came along, and sat down beside each other comfortably. As the bus moved, rocking everyone backwards, Victor pulled out his phone and began typing away on it. Yuri glanced at his screen out of the corner of his eye and nearly choked on his own spit when he saw the multiple heart emojis and _Yuuri’s name at the top._

Victor was smiling and blissfully ignoring Yuri’s suffering (or not noticing at all, and Yuri couldn’t decide which was the greater offense), typing away happily. He briefly considered texting Yuuri himself, if only to take the Japanese man’s attention away from Victor for a moment, but then he internally scowled at himself for sounding so fucking childish – and he was _not_ a child, he was fifteen years old!

“Yuuri says hi!” said Victor, just as Yuri was trying to calm down his strange thoughts. Was it anger? Jealousy? Protectiveness? He _felt_ like a child alright, four years old again, trying to protect and keep his older brother for himself. He willed himself not to be sent into another rage by Victor’s offhanded comment, and said,

“Great.”

It was a step away from “whatever,” but possibly in the wrong direction, sarcastic and bitter instead of relenting. Would Victor notice this at all? Would Yuuri, if it was conveyed to him? Or would they dismiss it as just another “Yuri thing?” Was it fair for him to try to keep another person to himself? To say that he’d met him first, he’d become his friend first, _you stay away?_

“He wants to know if you’ve been eating well,” said Victor at that point, making Yuri frown. What kind of a stupid question was that? Of course – not. Yuri was a teenager who liked to eat _pirozhki_ instead of vegetables, so if _pirozhki_ diets were considered the new health standard, then yes, he was following it to a T. “He says he’s worried about you with the competitions coming up – oh shit, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Sorry. Sorry! Is he going to be mad?”

Yuri sank lower into his bus seat and let Victor rant and rave and worry because that was Victor for you. He wondered what would happen if Yuuri and Victor really did get together. Would he be left behind, isolated like that time at his grandpa’s house a few weeks ago? Could he trust them to include him just like they always had? Or would it ultimately destroy Yuri’s life as he knew it?

Was that overdramatic, to think about it that way?

Was he asking too many questions?

“Uh,” said Yuri, having gotten off the bus at his stop and now walking along the street toward his little apartment as usual with _a certain silver-haired man at his side,_ “your place is _that_ way.”

“Yeah, I know!” said Victor cheerfully. Yuri narrowed his eyes. How suspicious. “I just… I decided to accompany you! What if you need help on your homework and all, you know?”

Uh, no, Yuri did not _know,_ but he had a feeling that he wouldn’t be able to shake the silver-haired man unless he really tried, and that usually resulted in a lot of drama and tears on both sides. Bad idea. The better idea would be to let Victor do whatever the fuck he was trying to do and eventually he would leave and then Yuri would be left alone in peace and quiet once more.

They ended up buying Chinese takeout from a small restaurant a few blocks away from Yuri’s apartment because Victor was watching him very carefully and probably reporting to Yuuri and Yuri figured that Chinese takeout might be more “reassuring” than _pirozhki._ Once back in his (empty, lonely) apartment, Yuri threw himself into math homework, if only to avoid having to chit-chat with Victor. What would they even chat about?

“You’ll choke if you eat that fast,” said Victor mildly from the couch, and Yuri flipped him off casually and returned to eating at the speed of sound. Math wasn’t too bad. He was good at it, in comparison to all his other subjects, even after being placed into a more advanced class than most of his peers. If the ice was a safe haven for Yuuri where he could just _think,_ then solving for _x_ and finding _dy/dx_ was roughly the equivalent for Yuri.

It was mostly stuff he’d learned last year, which wasn’t uncommon for kids in secondary school since they were preparing for their exams next year. People (like Victor, who couldn’t even do simple algebra at this point) always asked, _why do you put so much effort into math? Why would you_ like _something like that?_

Yuri didn’t know either. But there was a certain comfort in knowing that there was _one_ correct answer – that either he was correct or he wasn’t. There was a strange calm in being able to methodically work through a problem the same way he had done hundreds before it and get the right answer, no subjective interpretations involved.

After all, he had enough of others’ opinions in ice skating, where performance scores were largely based off of the judges’ interpretations in contrast to his own. He could never be “right” – he could only suit the judges’ tastes. And Yakov’s, and Victor’s. And the whole world’s, probably, when he competed as a senior.

So he diligently worked at finding derivatives and doing basic physics, ignoring Victor when the latter hovered around Yuri and peeked over his shoulder.

He went to bed wondering if Saturday would bring a multitude of different opinions on his skating.

***

Saturday dawned bright and early, whether he wanted it to or not, and he made his way to the rink half-asleep. Mila and Yakov were already there, along with a few people Yuri had never seen before. One of them was noticeably not Russian, so he suspected that these were the students.

“Where’s Vitya?” asked Yakov, to which Yuri just shrugged and yawned. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Mila, get ahold of him and Georgi.”

“Sure thing,” said Mila cheerily, clearly not affected by the time. Yuri made his way to the locker room without even sparing anyone else a glance, where he took off his jacket and laced up his skates. When he reappeared by the rink, Georgi was walking through the doors with a big smile on his face and Mila was doing stretches.

“Oh, some students are here already!” said Georgi, catching everyone’s attention. Yuri sat down on one of the bleachers, suspecting that these three students were early, and Victor was late. “I’m Georgi Popovich.”

“English,” Yakov barked, and Georgi had to re-introduce himself in English so that whoever was _not_ Russian would understand.

He shook hands with the three students – a blond girl and two dark-haired boys. “Svetlana Vasilieva,” said the blonde, obviously Russian, “from Moscow.”

“I’m Alex Morrison,” one of the boys offered, and his English was clearly fluent. “I’m from the US, actually, but I’m staying with my cousin in St. Petersburg for a month. I mean, who could pass up this opportunity, right?”

Mila draped an arm over his shoulder casually. Alex didn’t seem particularly affected. “We must be more well-known than I thought,” she said, her English clearly accented in comparison to Alex’s smooth, comfortable speech. Yuri wondered if his would be that obvious, too, and thought it might even be worse. Then again, he spoke English a lot with Yuuri, but Yuuri wasn’t a native English speaker either… “You’ve come a long way, Alex. Welcome!”

“Thank you,” said Alex, smiling. Georgi turned his attention to the third person, who so far hadn’t said a word or even cracked a smile. Yuri was slightly intrigued.

“And who might you be?” he asked.

“Otabek Altin.” They shook hands. It was simple, firm, and quick, and Yuri thought that this guy might be the least insufferable of them yet; at least he didn’t bother anybody. “From Kazakhstan.”

Victor walked in at that point, interrupting whatever sense of peace and quiet there might’ve been and loudly announcing his presence to an exasperated Yakov (“I told you to be here _half an hour ago, Vitya!_ ”) and waving hello to the three students before disappearing into the locker room. Yuri sat there as everyone kind of mingled and stretched, since the workshop wasn’t supposed to start for another half hour.

More people came streaming in – a guy from Italy, two more Russians, someone from Germany, someone from the UK. Then another two Russians (which was honestly to be expected) and someone from France who would probably get along very well with Georgi and Victor. Two Asians – one from China, one from Japan. They’d come a long way. Yuri began his stretches, still unsure of what his role would be in this workshop, and Yakov clapped his hands together and ordered them to gather up.

“I’m Coach Yakov Feltsman,” he introduced himself, sounding considerably more awkward now that he was speaking English in front of a group he had never met before. “Thank you for coming today. First, I would like to introduce four of my students, who will both be participating and assisting today – Victor Nikiforov, Mila Babicheva, Georgi Popovich, and Yuri Plisetsky.”

Oh, so Yuri was an assistant. Okay. Sure. Whatever. He didn’t recall being asked to be an assistant _or_ a participant, but here he was, so whatever. He briefly wondered about the other people who trained at this rink under Yakov, but then remembered that they didn’t compete internationally, so maybe that was why. They were a lot less serious, anyway.

“Next, I’ll present the schedule of events,” Yakov continued. “First, we will ask you what you want to improve on, whether it is jumps, basic technique, step sequences, or spins – or even performance scores, which are equally important. We will divide you into groups accordingly. Much of this workshop includes you guys helping each other, so please get along and share the ice. We will take a break for lunch and resume after one hour.”

And so it went. Most people were very interested in learning how to improve their jumps, so naturally, most of them ended up under Victor’s instruction. Victor didn’t have any experience as a coach, but he was by far the most technically advanced and he could surely at least provide _some_ good advice. Those who wanted to improve their performance scores went to Mila, whose performance points usually made up for any technical flubs in her programs. In addition, she took anyone who was interested in step sequences, since they were Victor’s fatal point and Georgi wasn’t too great at them either. Georgi headed the basic technique group, which had more junior skaters but also a few older ones – not surprising, really.

Yuri had been expecting this outcome. First, he was a junior skater, which meant that his word would be taken less seriously since he was lacking experience. Second, his technique was good, but not as good as Victor’s, and his step sequences weren’t so good, and his performance points weren’t particularly high, either, so he didn’t really have a specialty. He suspected that he would be asked to just be a participant, which made him frown; on the flipside, however, perhaps it was a good idea not to make him responsible for anybody.

“Yuri, I want you to help Victor,” said Yakov, and all eyes went to him. He didn’t allow himself to squirm. “But no quads, not even for demonstration.”

Yuri resisted the urge to roll his eyes, his glee at having an instructor’s role after all overtaking any rebellious responses he might’ve been tempted to give. “Sure.”

They went off into various corners of the rink. Their group had six people in it, and Victor, cheerful as ever, wanted to do introductions first. Yuri thought this was frankly unnecessary but hey, what did he know?

“I’ll go first,” said Victor happily. “I’m Victor Nikiforov, from St. Petersburg, and I love dogs! I have a poodle at home named Makkachin.”

Victor’s eyes went to the guy to his right expectantly. “Oh – I’m Julien Martin, from France. Nice to meet you.”

“Pets? Hobbies?” prompted Victor, as hyperactive as a little puppy. Yuri sighed quietly.

“Uh, my family owns a dog,” Julien offered. “A big Labrador.”

“I _love_ dogs,” said Victor, and then the introductions continued on and on, Victor always stepping in to offer his own opinions. Nobody seemed to mind, probably because they were talking to the living legend himself. Yuri, who was _too_ well-acquainted with Victor for his own tastes, zoned out.

He was brought back to reality when someone elbowed him in the ribs, and immediately turned on that person, a big scowl on his face. “What the hell was that for?” he demanded, finding himself staring at one of the three who’d gotten here early. He was the cool one – probably the most agreeable one, Yuri remembered thinking.

The boy – what was his name again? O-something? Oat? Oatmeal? _Ha, oatmeal_ – merely inclined his head toward Victor, who was raising his eyebrows at Yuri expectantly. Yuri sighed. “Yeah, hi, whatever, I’m Yuri Plisetsky, I hate Victor and his stupid dog and cats are the best.”

“Sorry, Yura’s a little grumpy in the mornings – “

“Only because _you’re_ here,” Yuri shot back, crossing his arms. “Are we going to work on jumps or not?”

“Yes, yes,” said Victor, smiling as always, placating as always, _nice_ and _kind_ even when faced with a 15-year-old’s terrifying temper tantrums. In time, Yuri might look back and wonder how anybody had managed to put up with him; at the moment, however, he just rolled his eyes and watched Victor start to clear out some space for them.

Victor decided that a “watch and learn and critique” philosophy was the best way to go about this. He had undoubtedly learned this from Yakov, who often had his students perform for other students not only to inspire them but also so that they could recognize the good and bad points in someone else’s skating and thus hopefully fix their own.

Oatmeal and Yuri immediately moved toward the back of the crowd, Yuri because he didn’t want to be a fucking model on display (even if jumps _were_ his strong point), and Oatmeal… well, Yuri didn’t know why, but Oatmeal seemed to be a fairly reserved person and maybe he wasn’t quite as eager to have all his flaws pointed out.

“Okay!” said Victor excitedly. “Who wants to go first?”

There was a bit of hesitance, and then an American guy stepped forward. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to work on my triple axel,” he said. Victor nodded, eyes gleaming, clapping his hands together, clearly enjoying his authority.

The guy performed his triple axel, which wasn’t bad but was somewhat shaky on the landing, and Yuri could tell that Victor was barely stopping himself from spewing out advice immediately. Instead, the silver-haired man smiled and said, “Great! Does anyone have any advice?”

Some people raised their hands like they were in _school_ and said some stuff – tighter landing, don’t over-rotate, etc. Yuri was tempted to raise his hand and ask how old this guy was if he still needed this much help with his triple axel, but that was just plain mean and Yuri wasn’t _that_ big of a jerk. Besides, on a less-competitive level, triple axels were amazing.

Probably.

They went on like that for a while, every person performing a jump they wanted help on and everyone else joining in to give advice if they could. Oatmeal went last, save for Yuri and Victor (who probably wouldn’t do one anyway – what jumps would he even need help on? But God save his step sequences, which were constantly messy and careless), and opted to try a quad Salchow. It was only the second quad of the day, the first having been the Japanese guy doing a quad toe, and Yuri had to admit that he was somewhat interested.

Oatmeal launched himself into the air, spinning, and Yuri counted – one, two, three, _four rotations, but wait_ – and landed shakily, almost crashing onto the ice and barely stopping himself from doing so. Victor clapped his hands together and repeated like a broken alarm clock, “Great! Any advice?”

Most of the skaters seemed unsure. They had mostly opted for triples, probably because they rarely did quads at their level, so they weren’t exactly qualified to give advice. Even the Japanese guy who’d done the quad toe was silent, merely tilting his head to the side as he seemed to ponder what advice he could give.

“Yura? Anything?” Victor prompted, and all eyes turned to Yuri, who immediately scowled. This was Victor’s stupid idea – why should he be dragged into it?

But Victor’s eyes were pleading, pleading him to help out Oatmeal, and Oatmeal’s dark eyes were gazing right into Yuri’s soul and _wow this was unnerving,_ so Yuri sighed and said,

“You need to be tighter. Quads are easier for thinner people who maintain a lot of angular momentum. You’re under-rotating.”

“Angular momentum,” Victor repeated, looking lost.

“In that case, you should be brilliant at it,” said Oatmeal, and Yuri couldn’t decide if that was a challenge. But it seemed like one, and he took it as one because everyone was staring at him now and what the hell was he supposed to do? _Fuck you._

He made a big show out of rolling his eyes, skating forward, and skated far enough to give himself enough momentum before launching into the air – _one, two, three, four –_ and landing perfectly, because Salchows were Yuri’s favorite and came easily to him and he might’ve practiced this quad before when Yakov wasn’t watching.

Yakov was watching this time and immediately bellowed, “ _Yuri, what have I told you about doing quads? You moron!”_

The entire rink was chuckling, and Victor clapped Yuri on the shoulder. “Just for demonstration purposes, Yakov!” he called back cheerily, defending Yuri, who actually felt quite glad for it. “There you go, Otabek. A perfect quad Salchow.”

Yuri watched carefully to see if there was any trace of resentment on Oatmeal’s face, but the dark-haired boy just nodded seriously and said nothing. The jerk couldn’t even admit when he’d been defeated – by a teenager undoubtedly a few years younger than him.

As they split up to practice on their own, with Victor and Yuri going up to each of them in turn to give advice, Victor winked at Yuri. “You’ll be competing against him next year,” he said, “when you make your senior debut. Isn’t that great?”

“What’s so great about it?” grumbled Yuri, honestly confused. Was Victor trying to tease him about something? But Victor just shrugged and skated off to correct a nearby skater’s triple loop.

What was so great about Oatmeal? He’d openly challenged Yuri and then gotten him yelled at by Yakov. His quad Salchow sucked and he was already a Senior. Yuri would beat his ass when he moved up next year – that was a promise.

“Oh, Yura,” said Yuuri, sighing like he was some sort of omniscient parent cleaning up after Yuri had made another mess (which actually wasn’t too far off, but Yuri would gladly keep the big frown on his face for now, thank you very much), “are you sure he was trying to challenge you?”

Yuri rolled his eyes, exaggerating it and rolling them to the Heavens. “ _Yes,_ I’m fucking sure,” he said, rubbing Potya behind the ears. She purred in his lap. “He’s a _jerk._ Thank God the training thing only lasted one day.”

“Did you at least have fun?”

“Have fun? With what?”

“You know, ordering them around. Teaching them even though you’re younger.”

Yuri raised one eyebrow delicately. “Are you trying to suggest that I had fun asserting my authority over them even when they didn’t want it?”

Yuuri raised one eyebrow right back at him. “Am I?”

“In that case, yes, I did,” said Yuri, relenting, as Potya jumped out of his lap and curled up on his bed instead. Yuuri’s smile was growing. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ve probably already gossiped about this with Victor, anyway.”

If Yuuri had indeed gossiped about it with Victor already (which Yuri was absolutely certain he had), the older man gave nothing away and just shrugged noncommittally. “Did you at least make any friends?”

“Friends?” Yuri snorted. “Who the hell do you think I am? _Victor_?”

“I was going to say that you don’t look anything like the poster on my wall back in Japan, but then I remembered I bought that poster of you a few years ago. Pretty sure it’s still there.”

Yuri wrinkled his nose. “The one where they made me pose in a _girl’s outfit_ because they couldn’t find anything suitable for my ‘figure’? It was bullshit, by the way, and I’m pretty sure I told you _not_ to look for it.”

Yuuri just beamed at him innocently. “It was cute!”

“I’m not _cute!”_ Yuri growled, metaphorical feathers ruffled now. “And yeah, I forgot about your obsession with Victor. Good job not fainting in front of him the other day.”

Yuuri turned red. They hadn’t talked about his obsession with Victor for a long time now. Yuri had introduced Yuuri to the silver-haired man’s skating, a long time ago, and Yuuri had fallen in love at first sight. For years afterward, Victor’s routines and standings were a regular part of their conversations, but as Yuri rose to fame himself, mentions of Victor lessened – especially when they became rinkmates and seeing Victor Nikiforov, the living legend, was an everyday occurrence.

They hung up not long afterward, since it was getting late. Yuri went to sleep not long afterward, Yuuri’s question weighing on his mind, repeating over and over: _Did you at least make any friends? Friends? Did you?_

As though someone like him were even remotely capable of befriending someone in a day. No, it was more the opposite; he’d potentially made an enemy – one he’d be skating against next year, according to Victor.

It was a strange feeling, he thought, looking over the Seniors’ Grand Prix assignments the next day and spotting Oatmeal’s name immediately (which was apparently _not_ Oatmeal – it was Otabek Altin, but Yuri wasn’t counting on his fucking awful memory). It was like seeing someone familiar in a sea of unknown faces, which made Oatmeal seem so much closer than everybody else – but also so much farther, because he probably hated Yuri and they’d barely interacted except to throw their respective abilities in each other’s faces.

Yuuri chuckled, writing something on the side with one hand and resting his cheek on the other. “It’s called a rivalry, Yura. It’s not uncommon.”

“Do you have rivals?” He was genuinely curious, because Yuuri didn’t seem like the type of person who’d purposely provoke anyone (or respond to an obvious provocation – unlike Yuri, apparently) and he wasn’t exactly sure how else one would gain themselves a “rival.”

“Of course not – what’s the integral of sine-squared? I should have this memorized by now…”

“X over two, minus one-half sine of two-x,” said Yuri automatically, realizing what he’d done at the same time Yuuri did. “Uh, I mean – “

“You already know _integrals?”_ said Yuuri, flabbergasted, mouth hanging open as though Yuri had just pulled off a quad flip (which he would probably never do – Victor was the only one who could really pull it off flawlessly, and obviously Yuri would never be _Victor_ ). Yuri just shrugged. “I thought… I mean, I knew you were good at math, but… why do you even have that memorized?”

“We’ve been doing them in class. It comes up a lot.”

Other than a few heaps of praise, Yuuri said nothing more about it and changed the subject skillfully from calculus to Yuri’s plans for his next GP qualifier in a few weeks.

The rink, however, was a different story.

“Yuri, what’s sine of thirty degrees?” shouted Victor, successfully distracting Yuri from where he was tracing figures in the ice and causing him to go off track. Yuri scowled.

“Fuck off, old man!” But he couldn’t resist showing off his knowledge, since apparently he was actually _good_ at math and that made him feel great. So he mumbled, “One-half.”

Mila whooped. “What about three-eighty-six divided by seven? Betcha can’t do _that_ in your head – “

Yuri, determined to live up to the challenge, was already subtracting and bringing down numbers. “Fifty-five-point-one-four,” he said, and Victor scrambled to check it on his phone and deemed it correct.

“What the hell,” said Georgi, his tone for once flat and hard rather than all disgustingly gooey, watching them from the side of the rink. “Yuri’s good at math?”

“Better than _you_ ,” Yuri retorted. His figure was now rather ugly; what had once been a symmetrical figure-eight now had some uneven edges and strange lines going through strange places. He rolled his eyes. First, it was Victor’s fault; second, he could never restrain himself from stepping up to the challenge.

This was exactly what had made him his first “rival” – Oatmeal – at the training camp, but apparently he’d learned nothing. It wasn’t a big deal, Yuri thought, but what if one day someone dared him to do something really bad? Would he go for it?

The light teasing continued, Yuri feeding the fire as his calculus and physics classes gradually increased in difficulty and complexity. By the end of September, only a few weeks later, Yuri was calculating the angular momentum required to successfully complete a quad salchow, according to data he collected from Victor (Yakov was not happy that Yuri was “wasting” both his and Victor’s valuable rink time, but seemed somewhat interested nonetheless). He aced the project but still struggled with actually completing the jump himself.

“Why don’t you just apply your own theories to your training?” Yuuri suggested one night, adjusting his glasses. Yuri’s eyebrows rose.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like – you know, figure out how fast you should be going and what it should look like in mid-air or something. I don’t know – angles? Don’t you usually train with harnesses?”

“Yeah, when you’re learning the jump, to help you get ahold of rotations and shit,” said Yuri, actually interested in what Yuuri was saying. “I can do the jump. It just looks like utter crap half the time.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to do quads.”

Whoops. “I… don’t.”

“Then why are you telling me you can’t do it, as though from experience? Listen to your coach, silly.”

There were a lot of stronger and more accurate words Yuuri could’ve used at the end of his sentence there – idiot, moron, fool – but Yuuri was a nice person and used “silly” instead. So Yuri decided not to push his luck and when he went back to the rink and practiced his quad, he was thinking about angles and momentum and velocity and drag and he didn’t tell Yuuri that it had worked because then he would’ve earned himself another scolding.

And then it was October and Yuri was in Croatia, mind filled with facts and figures. He still won gold by a landslide, given his incredible technical standings, but he was far from satisfied – and so was Yakov, from the looks of it. “What the hell was that?” Yakov demanded the evening after the free skate. “ _What was that?_ You’re lucky you were vastly overscored, Yura, because I would’ve given you _nothing_ for artistry!”

“I still won,” said Yuri defiantly, but he knew Yakov was right. Somehow, he had completely overlooked that point of ice skating at all in favor for the technical, mathematical side – the side that was undoubtedly correct and never subjective. It was safe, solid, and grounded – but it meant absolutely fucking _nothing_ to a dancer. Or a musician. Or a skater, who really should be both.

The heavy weight of his loss hung over his head as they returned to Russia. Georgi, Victor, and Mila all had their own assignments and would be competing soon, and Yakov would now turn his focus to them and away from Yuri. So it was Yuri’s burden to bear alone – and rightfully so.

He really just couldn’t catch a break. But he would have to figure it out before the finals, because the whole world would be watching.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yuri works toward getting out of his comfort zone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who just started college???!!! :O  
> also, yuri's kinda temperamental and sometimes he does sorta overreact but I purposely wrote him this way bc he's a teenager living away from home with all his doubts/insecurities and don't forget his complicated relationship with victor

It was raining outside.

Yuri liked the rain, but it felt particularly ominous today. He still neglected to bring an umbrella but flipped his hood over his head as he walked to the bus stop. That was his first indication that the rest of the day would go horribly, horribly wrong, but he ignored it because, well, what else could he do?

He missed his usual bus by a few seconds and was forced to wait for the next one. As he sprinted to his classroom, already two minutes late (the teacher was fucking evil and would probably kill him – or, worse yet, put him in detention), he slipped and came crashing down hard on the concrete. His years of experience in falling on the ice saved him from injury, which was good because he didn’t need Yakov’s wrath, too, but he still rubbed his hip ruefully as he got up and continued on his way.

Even his classes didn’t go well. They were boring, for one, and even in math and physics Yuri kept taking the derivative when he was supposed to be finding the integral, or vice versa, writing down that the racecar’s velocity was _60km/hr_ and acceleration _60x+C_ , when it should’ve been flipped _and he knew this because it was so basic he could do it in his sleep._ Dmitry, who sat beside him, asked for help deriving the formula for Newton’s Law of Cooling and then asked about finding angular momentum. Yuri, who was effectively brain-dead, handed over his past assignments for Dmitry to use as reference rather than explaining anything at all.

By the time he made his way to the rink, hip still regrettably sore and clothes and backpack almost drenched, he was so fed up with everything that he refused to practice any of his programs, knowing he’d just mess them up and then fall into an endless spiral of _I knew I couldn’t do this._ Instead, he practiced simple jumps and spirals and spins – the ones even Novice skaters could probably do – and pretended Victor wasn’t trying to talk to him whenever Yakov was distracted with Georgi.

“It’s good to see you returning to the basics for once,” Yakov said gruffly, albeit a bit confusedly. “But what’s gotten into you? Your technical score – “

“Yeah, I know,” Yuri interrupted him, not wanting to hear any more. Yakov wouldn’t understand. “Stop nagging, old man, and go fix Georgi’s shitty Salchow.”

Yakov eyed him cautiously but said nothing. Yuri returned to calculated double axels and careful toe loops. When things felt desperately unstable, he had to find a way to ground himself.

“Yura, come to dinner with us,” said Mila, after practice. Yuri shouldered his backpack and grabbed his skate bag by the handles. “And I know you’re about to refuse, so don’t. It’ll be good for you.”

“Fuck off,” Yuri spat, frustrated and just flat out _done_ with everything. Even the ice was no longer a haven, and it pissed him off a lot more than he would’ve expected. Seeing Victor’s cheerful face would just remind him of all the things he couldn’t do.

He pushed past Mila, who grabbed his shoulder. “Wait,” she said, and Yuri noted that they were alone in the rink now. Yakov was in his office, and Victor and Georgi were probably waiting outside. He suddenly felt a little guilty for snapping at the redhead, remembering how welcoming she had been when he had first come to the rink. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “What’s wrong? Yakov said you’re probably still mulling over Croatia, but it’s been a week. If you need help, ask for it.”

“What am I supposed to ask?” Yuri ground out, wanting nothing more but to escape this terrifyingly intimate moment but realizing that running would make things worse for him tomorrow. His rinkmates knew him well enough. “ _’Hey Victor, take time out of your fucking valuable practice time and teach me how to interpret a piece’?_ Or should I go to Georgi? Ask him how to become emotional like him? Or, God forbid, _you?”_ His frustration was spilling out now. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. “Teach me how to become a skater and not a fucking robot? Convince me that Yuuri didn’t make a huge mistake in recording my music for me? Will you _teach_ me how to _feel?”_

If Mila was surprised by his unusual show of emotion, she didn’t show it. “No,” she said. “You don’t need to learn how to _feel._ You just need to learn to show it on the ice.”

“And how the hell are you supposed to teach _that_?” Yuri snapped. “Ballet? Meditation? Are you going to make me learn Zen mode under a waterfall in Japan?”

“What does any of that have to do with skating?”

Yuri dared to glance up for a second. Mila didn’t look confused, which meant that she was challenging Yuri’s slightly crazed words. If Victor and Georgi were alike in their emotional displays, Mila and Yuuri were alike in their mature, patient logic. For a moment, Yuri veered on the edge, about to topple, about to allow himself to fall into the safe haven that only they could create.

“Yura,” said Mila, soft and slow, as Yuri wrenched himself away from the edge. This wasn’t the time. He could go home and fall into darkness and cry about how pitiable he was – but not here, not now, not while people were watching, because that in itself would be a failure. “You were getting it, a few weeks ago. But now it seems like you’re afraid of something – afraid to let yourself go, afraid to show the world what you want so desperately to show them. You wanted to prove your abilities, didn’t you?”

“No!” Yuri snapped immediately, and this time Mila really did look surprised. “No – _no!_ What I want to show them is – “

_Yuuri’s music._

“Mila, Yura, what’s taking you so long?” Victor called from the doorway. Mila’s eyes flashed with something Yuri couldn’t quite catch – frustration? Irritation? “Hurry up! I’m hungry!”

Yuri’s back was turned to Victor, and he pushed his emotions down, suppressing them and forcing them to stay somewhere deep inside of him where he could deal with them later. He carefully rearranged his face. Mila said, voice tinged with a bit of exasperation,

“We’ll be right there, Vitya, calm down. Yura was telling me about his math – “ Mila stopped herself, realizing that her words would lead to more teasing. “ – I mean, his classmates. There were some transfer students. He made friends!”

Mila surely pitied him, or else she wouldn’t have stopped herself mid-sentence. Yuri wasn’t sure whether to appreciate or despise it.

They went to dinner, Victor sometimes chatting with Georgi and sometimes attempting to tell Yuri about Makkachin’s most recent expedition to the vast land known as the park, always chattering on and on without fail and never letting anything deter him. When even Georgi began to tune him out, Victor continued, talking to nobody and everybody at once, waving hello to random strangers on the street because he felt like it.

Yuri ate _pirozhki_ and drank hot chocolate and felt a little better. When they departed, going their own ways for the night, Mila said quietly, “Talk about it with Yuuri.” And then she was gone, waving, yelling at Victor cheerfully to expect them over next weekend for a party.

The thing was, Yuri didn’t want to talk about it with Yuuri. Yuuri had surely watched his performance and was surely disappointed. He was probably wondering why he’d even bothered to believe in someone like Yuri – someone who was a coward.

Mila was right – at some point, Yuri _had_ begun to show his emotions. Up to the Latvia competition, at least, he had been steadily improving, thinking about what the music meant to him. But at his second qualifier, when stakes were high but only for his own personal pride because _yeah, there was no doubt at all he would be advancing to the Final,_ he had been so caught up in rigid perfection that he’d fallen into something that was as far from perfection as humanity itself.

He loved his physics class – he really did. He truly enjoyed calculations and correct answers and hidden mechanics. But he had taken it too far, had tried too hard to apply it to his skating, and although he knew he could fix it eventually, he felt awful about his failure.

Failure, failure, failure. Was that all he would ever be? One failure after another, in some shape or form?

On Saturday, he dragged himself to the rink in the morning and found it to be empty save for Mila, who was practicing her short program. Yakov was most likely hanging out in his office since their training hours hadn’t technically begun yet, and it would’ve been foolish to expect Victor or Georgi to be here early.

He leaned against the side of the rink and watched sleepily. Mila’s form was good, but her jumps weren’t tight. Sometimes, during her spins, she began to travel across the ice – a fair amount, too, and a judge would surely notice if even Yuri could see it. But Yuri liked watching, although he picked out all the technical flaws and mentally detracted points, because Mila’s skating was solid and yet expressive.

“You’re here early,” she remarked when she finished, skating over to him so that they were only separated by the rink barrier. Yuri raised an eyebrow.

“You’re one to talk.”

She chuckled. “Yeah, okay, I’ll take that. So what did you think?”

Yuri shrugged. “Could be tighter.”

“If I actually understood all the math things you talk about, you could help me, right?”

Yuri eyed her cautiously. “Probably.”

She smiled. “Did you talk to Yuuri yet?”

He hadn’t, so he stayed (suspiciously) silent, and Mila rolled her eyes.

“You know you’ll literally make no progress until you do something, right? I’m telling you – talking to Yuuri will be your best bet, and I don’t even know him.”

“Then why are you suggesting it? For all you know, he could be a fucking murderer.”

“A murderer who played the music for your free skate? At least think through your stories before you tell them, Yura.”

They were soon interrupted by the loud and timely arrival of Victor, who strolled through the doors like he owned the place (honestly, he practically did; the owners of the rink profited off his very presence) and shouted his greetings to Yuri and Mila as enthusiastically as anybody possibly could.

Honestly, thought Yuri, Victor was truly unparalleled – in skating, in dramatics, in cheer. He was amazing. But there were some parts of him that Yuri wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to imitate, even if he could.

He was learning English in school as his foreign language, obviously, since it was important for an international athlete to know (not to mention he’d started attempting to learn it from a young age so he could talk to Yuuri; Yuuri had beaten him to it, though, learning both Russian _and_ English, which was totally ridiculous). He made his English as perfect as possible during interviews and publicized speeches, spending hours poring over proper grammar and sentence structure. It was tedious, but the world was taking notice of him and he had to be as good as possible.

His English class was reading Conrad’s _Heart of Darkness,_ which was about some guy who went into the jungle and met some weird people along the way. He didn’t really get it, but apparently white people were evil in Africa or something.

An ocean away, Yuuri was probably rolling his eyes.

His teacher wasn’t very helpful, either, assigning them simple plot questions to answer and then an essay on Marlow’s heroic journey. Yuri did his assignments dutifully but without much thought, because nobody had actually bothered to look into the book and figure out what the point was. Why had the author even bothered to write something like this? Yuri didn’t know. His classmates didn’t know. His teacher didn’t know either, and apparently didn’t give a shit.

 _“Yura,”_ Mila ground out a few days later, and Yuri immediately skated away, trying to avoid her. No, he hadn’t talked to Yuuri. No, he didn’t know what he was going to do, not when his programs were either shitty or overemotional or some combination of both.

“Yura, just do it _right,_ ” said Yakov, rolling his eyes. “I know you can do it. I watched you do it before.”

“Did you?” said Yuri quietly, too quietly for anybody to hear. Because, yeah, he’d done it before. He’d gotten somewhere, made some progress. But going to the Final meant that everybody would be watching and expecting and waiting for him to show his soul and that was terrifying. They would be judging and critiquing and dropping snide comments and scoring him based on their own subjective opinions and _what was he supposed to do?_

Drop all his defenses and show the world how pathetic he was?

Maybe it would’ve been better had he never learned about angular momentum at all. Now that he’d had a taste of solid, technical skating, he didn’t want to go back to the land of uncertainty. It was risky and insecure and quite frankly terrifying, and yes, of course he would prefer to stay in the land of objective scoring.

“Yura,” someone said, and Yuri, fed up, lashed out.

“What the hell do you want now? Shut up!”

Victor didn’t even look surprised. They were the only ones left in the rink. It was nighttime, practice hours were pretty much over, and Mila and Georgi were probably in the locker rooms by now. Victor alone remained on the ice with Yuri, looking pensive. “Stay here for a moment.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” said Yuri through gritted teeth as Victor skated to the edge of the rink put his skate guards on. “Hey, old man! What the fuck!”

Victor ignored him and walked off. Yuri had half a mind to get off the ice and change and go home, but he would probably be pushing his luck. Victor looked serious, and serious Victor was a force to be reckoned with.

Yeah, Yuri valued his life, at least to some extent.

He skated slow loops around the rink without really thinking about it. Instead, his mind was occupied with other things: his homework, what Victor was up to (it probably wasn’t anything good), talking to Yuuri, the Grand Prix Final. Coffee shops and hot chocolate. His grandpa in Moscow.

Familiar music ran through his head, starting soft and slow, as though from a faraway distance. Without realizing it, he began reacting to it, moving to the music, slow and steady. It was peaceful, like his childhood with his parents, curled up in the sun on lazy afternoons.

He thought of Yuuri, inevitably, fingers flying across the keys and shining eyes and the passion that poured from his fingertips. He thought of the chill that ran through him that day so long ago. He thought of how excited he would be to answer Yuuri’s letters – letters that later turned into emails, which later turned into texts and then Skype too.

His grandpa had been glad. His parents would’ve been proud. He was sure of that. He was sure that they’d sent Yuuri into his life to watch over him, to guide him, to inspire him. Maybe it was their way of saying they loved him and that they were sorry.

Then there was Victor, who was, well, _Victor._ He was the sibling Yuri had never had, always bright and cheerful, pushing Yuri even when he didn’t realize it. And Mila, who was actually quite a lot like Yuuri in composure, soft and patient and kind when she wanted to be, even if she teased Yuri a lot. Like an older sister, she inevitably wormed her way into his life, annoying sometimes and understanding at other times. Even Georgi, who had never really tried to get close to Yuri, made his presence known and consistent, doing little things that Yuri appreciated like bringing him hot chocolate or purposely taking Yakov’s attention away when Yuri had done something wrong again.

Yuri missed his parents, even now. He missed their warmth and their light and their bright smiles and their love. He remembered his mother’s death and he remembered his father’s fall to darkness. He wished they’d been there to guide him through childhood and these difficult teenage years, to reassure him and help him be a good person, to accept him unconditionally because that was what he needed and wanted and desperately longed for.

But he was thankful for his grandpa, who had cared for him and who was always happy to see him. He was thankful for Yuuri, who inspired and guided and loved him. He was thankful for Victor, who pushed him and accepted him without question. He was thankful for Mila and Georgi, who tried their best to support him, even on Yakov’s worst days. He was thankful for Yakov too, for pushing and pulling and guiding and making him feel needed and telling him the truth as it was.

Even when he was a failure, the people around him inevitably always came back to him, always lifted him up, always accepted him back into the fold when he was ready.

So maybe…

He launched himself into his short program, dancing to the music with barely any regard for technique, trying to throw away his fears, using his loved ones as support. They would love him even if he failed, even if he messed up, even if he looked stupid on the ice. They had proven themselves time and time again. Who was Yuri to say they _wouldn’t?_

That was right, he thought; he was just being presumptuous and arrogant to assume that they _didn’t_ care for them. It would be so ungrateful of him to dismiss their care and attention over the years, just like that. It wouldn’t be fair.

They had promised him. He would hold them to it.

The ending of the piece was strong, fast, a little chaotic. Yuri’s movements became more desperate and flashy, jerkier but more expressive. A low spin as the music descended, rising upward out of it as the music ascended. Grand gestures, a bit of flailing. That would’ve been a deduction. Yuri didn’t think about it.

A triple Salchow. Perfect, even without mathematics.

He held the ending pose, breathing heavily, before doubling over and trying to catch his breath. Victor said, “I knew you could do it.”

And Yuri was tempted to believe him.

“I could’ve told you that. We all love you and support you, Yura, even if you act like you don’t care,” said Yuuri, adjusting his glasses like a stereotypical anime nerd. “But I think your class is taking _Heart of Darkness_ a little too lightly.”

“I hate English _,”_ Yuri grumbled.

***

_So I said, “If I mess up, if I fail, if I fall to the very bottom, will you still stand with me?” I had expected a straight-up “no” or even a bit of hesitation and then an affirmation hissed through gritted teeth accompanied by a blindingly fake smile, but I was terribly wrong._

_“Of course,” he said, without missing a beat. “That’s what friends are for.”_

Yuri groaned, looking over his own writing. This was _awful._ It was ridiculously stereotypical and with all the same themes he’d seen over and over again, in both Russian and English literature. _Friendship._ Woohoo. How exciting.

He wanted to write something like _Heart of Darkness_ – something that required you to look deep inside to understand, something that was far more than just words printed on a page. He wanted to write something that people had to take apart and analyze, page by page, line by line, word by word.

Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was doing.

The only requirements for his assignment were that it had to be written in English, over 1000 words, and be an original composition. It would be due in a few months at the end of the semester, just before everyone left for winter break.

So Yuri procrastinated like every other teenager, putting it off. He could worry about it later.

He wanted to write something meaningful, but nothing came to mind. Maybe he wasn’t experienced enough yet – wasn’t well-walked in the ways of life or something.

At the rink, he was getting better, reminding himself that _nobody would care if he failed_ and that he didn’t need to be absolutely fucking flawless to win something. It worked sometimes and didn’t work other times, but he tried his best and Yakov approved.

“Much better,” he said gruffly, a few days later, clapping Yuri on the shoulder. Yuri pretended to look unamused, but inside he was shining with glee. A genuine compliment from Yakov was hard to come by, especially for someone like Yuri (because in contrast, the living legend probably heard praise all the time). So he didn’t even act annoyed when Yakov added, “But watch your entrance into the axel. It’s getting sloppy.”

“Hey, you actually look like a human being now,” Mila commented teasingly as she glided past him, her long hair flying behind her. Yuri turned and glared at her, but she just waved it off, smiling. He wasn’t really mad – he couldn’t be, when everyone around him was showering him with compliments. Yuri was a simple creature. He liked compliments, hated criticism. That was probably one reason why he lashed out at Victor so often; the older man dished out criticism like it was his fucking job (it wasn’t, because it was Yakov’s) without a care in the world.

He and Yakov worked out a schedule. Every other day – the days he spent less time at the rink – was jump day; he practiced spins and jumps and the like with the help of his physics knowledge and Yakov’s sharp eye. Yakov still wouldn’t let him do quads in competition, but he did allow a few minutes of practice every session, in the middle when Yuri wasn’t too fatigued, so that Yuri could continue to improve and advance his skills.

The other days were spent on drilling step sequences and doing figures and practicing ballet. Yuri had worked under Yakov’s ex-wife, Lilia Baronovskaya, when he was younger. He wasn’t eager to repeat the experience, but he definitely began to see results as the weeks went by.

Victor and Mila and Georgi all did well in their qualifiers and would undoubtedly qualify for the GPF themselves, which Yuri was more or less glad about. They also crashed his apartment every weekend for “fun,” they claimed, bringing board games and cards and shitty romance movies to watch (but nothing _interesting,_ because Yuri was a “small child” and could not be exposed to “this kind of thing”) and essentially invading his personal space. This, Yuri pretended not to be glad about, because it would be fucking weird to start _welcoming_ them. But they brought food, so that was good. It was almost a fair tradeoff.

_Almost._

“What the fuck,” said Yuri, opening the door anyway and pretending that he hadn’t been expecting this, more or less. Victor was holding a bottle of vodka and pushed past Yuri cheerfully, heading for the kitchen to grab some glasses (“It’s no fun if you don’t drink from the bottle, but I guess I’ll make an exception for you, little Yura!”). Georgi followed him, setting down a huge stack of movies on the countertop. Yuri scowled.

“Here,” said Mila, showing him the pizzas, _pirozhki,_ and cookies she’d brought, “the peace offerings.”

Yuri eyed her carefully and then took the load from her. “Fine.”

Georgi put on an English movie that Yuri spent most of the time trying to ignore (it was disgustingly sappy and full of cliché scenes that made him want to die – and _he_ was the teenager, wasn’t he?) as they played Monopoly for the thousandth time. Victor, as always, spent all his money right at the beginning, no matter what space he landed on. Mila was a little more thoughtful, watching the proceedings carefully even as she teased the others loudly. Georgi, ever emotional, bought and sold depending on his mood.

So it wasn’t really surprising to find Mila winning throughout most of the game, Yuri or Georgi a close second (although the latter was mostly earning money through pure luck, without any strategy whatsoever). Victor, who was both terrible with his finances _and_ a sore loser, whined about it continuously.

“Maybe Yuuri will comfort me,” he half-sobbed, clutching his phone dramatically as though it held all the answers. He seemed a little more dramatic than usual (which was saying a lot) and had also downed half a bottle of vodka by himself at one time, so Yuri suspected he was a tiny bit buzzed. To everyone’s entertainment, Yuuri’s only response was:

**[21:39] Yuuri <3: You honestly should’ve taken a finance class somewhere. You’re awful with your money. **

Victor cried even harder and eventually Mila won, a surprise to nobody. As Yuri laid back and refused to help clean up (citing the fact that they were invading _his_ apartment as his reason), Victor downed the rest of the vodka (“Yakov doesn’t have to know!”) and then began to tap rapidly away at his phone. Yuri had a feeling he was texting Yuuri; nothing else could motivate him in such a manner, unfortunately. Georgi moped and cleaned up the board game as Mila jumped to her feet and began rummaging through Georgi’s stack of DVDs (Yuri still had a DVD player and it was too much work to connect a phone or laptop to the TV).

They were halfway through _Beauty and the Beast_ when Yuri said carelessly, “What kind of an animal is he, anyway?”

“A _beast,_ Yura, a _beast,_ ” said Mila, as though that explained everything.

“Are you _judging_ the beast? It’s not _his_ fault he was cursed!” Georgi sobbed. “Well, it was, but don’t judge his appearance! He’s a good man now! A good man, I tell you!”

“I mean, he’s kind of handsome,” Victor mused. “You would make a good Belle, Yura.”

“What the fuck?” said Yuri, a little disgusted. “I’m not a girl who goes around singing about fucking bakers and flowers and shit.”

“Would you rather be the Beast?” Mila teased. “I thought he was _ugly_.”

Yuri’s first reaction was _well that’s not far off then, huh?_ But he quickly realized that it would be a strange thing to say (and would probably incur more tears from Georgi and perhaps an unneeded counseling session), so he said as confidently as he could, “He is. And I’m not.”

“Belle it is,” Victor declared rather woozily, and the next day he showed up at the rink with a brown wig. Yuri had never been more grateful for Yakov’s imposing presence.

Disney movies and rinkmate shenanigans aside, Yuri felt a little unsettled when he watched Victor skate now, although the older man was still as graceful and skillful on the ice as he had ever been, despite his age. But it was boring to watch now, not necessarily because Yuri had seen the program so many times he knew it as well as his own, but perhaps because Victor had nothing new to show the audience. Everything he was doing now was something he’d done before.

Yuri remembered the argument he and Victor had had before the JGPF qualifiers, and decided not to mention it – at least not for now, because arguments unsettled him and would take a lot of time and energy to get through.

So he focused on his own programs, as much as he could, trying to remind himself to _feel_ rather than think. As soon as he thought about something, he was technically perfect – a rare thing, since most of the time overthinking led to mistakes – but in his case, this was not a blessing but a curse. As soon as he went into his technical mode, there was no coming back from it – at least not during a performance, when he was struggling to hang on to everything.

In hindsight, he was struggling under pressure – pressure the world put on him, pressure he put on himself. At the time, he took it as a general sense of inferiority.

“Don’t worry so much,” said Yuuri casually, and it suddenly struck Yuri that Yuuri was starting to sound more and more like Victor these days. And that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “You’ll be fine, no matter what. Really.”

Yuri raised one eyebrow.

“Come on, Yura,” said Yuuri, sighing. “You know you’re good. Everyone knows that. We all know you can do it, so have some confidence in yourself. Stability is great. But you’ve got to take risks sometimes.”

“What the fuck?” said Yuri, anger quickly rising. Yuuri looked taken aback. “Did Victor tell you to say that? Are you going to tell me that I’m overreacting? That I shouldn’t be so fucking stupid? To get over myself?”

“What?” said Yuuri, flabbergasted. “Someone _said_ that to you?”

“ _No,_ because I never let them know!” Potya jumped out of his lap as his anger mounted. “But I’m not stupid. Victor’s always staring at me like I’m an idiot, or like he’s better than me. He doesn’t think about anybody but himself. Before you met him, you never would’ve said anything like that – _fuck!_ I knew this was a bad idea!”

“Yura – “

“You can go to your precious _Vitya_ and gossip all you want,” Yuri hissed, abruptly hanging up the Skype call and slamming his laptop shut. Perhaps he had just proved his own point about overreacting, he thought. But Yuuri, gentle, supportive Yuuri, had essentially just told him to _get over it –_ just like everybody else in the whole damn world, probably, if given the chance.

It was a very _Victor_ thing to do, for sure, and he had no doubt this had occurred due to Victor’s influence. Victor was helpful at times and infuriating at other times, something Yuri had long since accepted, but _this –_ this was different. How could Victor _change_ Yuuri like this? Influence him like this? _Take him away from Yuri?_

He sounded jealous. He _was_ jealous. He hated it. He hated it all.

**[20:19] Katsudon: Yura, I’m sorry. I don’t completely understand what’s going on, but I’m sorry if I said something offensive**

**[23:43] Katsudon: I’m sorry! Please don’t be mad!**

**[02:56] Katsudon: Well, good night. I’ll make sure Victor doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean**

Yuri wondered, in the morning, if this was _his_ problem, not Victor’s and not Yuuri’s. Maybe it was his fault.

Maybe he really just needed to get over it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yuri learns to go about it rationally and to look past his teenage brain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm totally not uploading this during my philosophy lecture...  
> heh. I think that by looking past his own self-set limits, yuri starts to see problems in other people and thinks much more maturely.

_Always first entertain the possibility that you may be wrong._

Yuri was not a particularly arrogant person. Assuming that he was always right would be a stupid thing to do, left to idiots like JJ Leroy, and now he realized how dangerous it was to forget that.

There were several things he had to do: first, he would skate like a fucking prima ballerina if it killed him, subjective scoring or not, technical mistakes be damned because _the music meant nothing without his interpretation_ ; second, none of his rinkmates deserved to be weighed down by his own problems, so he would stop snapping and griping and would return to his “usual” self; third, he would pretend that the incident with Yuuri had never happened because, well, both Yuuri and Victor were important and he was thankful for them regardless; fourth, he would show the audience how amazing Yuuri’s piano playing was because that was what it deserved.

He set about it very logically, like a math derivation. He went back to Lilia, Yakov’s (slightly bitchy) ex-wife, a tall, stern, sharp woman with hollow cheekbones and very arched eyebrows. Lilia taught him ballet, pushing him and pushing him until he felt like he was about to crack _and even then, he kept going because he had to, because that was what his derivation required._ Lilia, though strict, had her own way of caring, reminding Yuri to point his toes and straighten his legs, giving him days off after particularly grueling sessions.

Yakov took over the part on the ice, of course, and under their combined watch Yuri flourished like never before (even he could tell, pessimistic as he was). His feet were wrecked messes and he tried not to look at his toenails and every part of his body ached, but he was improving. Rapidly.

He continued drilling the basics, over and over like a clockwork, until Yakov told him firmly to move on to something else because drilling the basics forever would not improve the speed of his step sequences (to this, Victor remarked, “Or would it? I mean, at least he’s trying, unlike the rest of us…”) and then Yuri drilled his step sequences methodically, over and over and over, until Yakov told him his PCS scores would never improve if he never put more thought into the position of his arms and the precise angle of his leg and the way his fingers were flared. Yuri, for once, bit down his argument and remembered to stop being defensive because who was he to argue with a world-class coach like Yakov?

Mila noticed first, of course. “You okay?” she asked cryptically one day after practice, to which Yuri wasn’t sure how to respond. Which response would reassure her the most? He settled for raising one eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” said Mila. “You just seem kind of out of it these days. But Yakov’s glad for it, I’ll give you that.”

“No clue what you’re talking about,” said Yuri, trying to sound dismissive. Mila didn’t bring up the topic again, and neither did he.

 _This is my last year,_ he typed later that evening, adding to the huge document filled with ideas and phrases and random paragraphs that he might or might not use for his English project, _and it has to be perfect. But to achieve perfection, there are a lot of things you have to accomplish along the way. One of these things is to recognize that you will never reach perfection itself; you can only grasp for it desperately, until everything aches both inside and out, until you feel horridly empty and you have to find something else to fill that gap inside of you._

“Straighten your leg!” Lilia snapped, and he did so, not letting the frustration show on his face. “Better. From the top, and don’t forget to point your toes.”

Lilia was a harsh woman, but not unkind. Yuri danced for her, selling his soul in exchange for something closer to perfection, and she recognized that and respected it for what it was. When Yuri fell, as he inevitably did, she only stared at him silently until he got back up, green eyes hard and glassy, and said,

“Again.”

And so it went.

Yuri had a playlist of English songs that Yuuri’s friend Phichit had made on Spotify, titled “Work It Like Yuuri<3,” which was quite appropriate considering the songs were mostly rock or alternative and great for working out to. Yuri, who didn’t listen to classical music outside of the stuff for his programs, hit _shuffle_ on Phichit’s playlist religiously.

It ranged from older bands like The Killers and Green Day to Linkin Park and 30 Seconds to Mars to Panic! at the Disco to new hits by The Chainsmokers and Clean Bandit (“Rockabye,” in particular, made Yuri think of the old days). Sometimes the English lyrics were incomprehensible to him, but that didn’t really matter because he enjoyed the music itself.

Phichit updated the playlist fairly often, adding to its already incredible amount of tracks. It wasn’t rare for an unfamiliar song to play, given how long it would take to go through the entire playlist and the speed at which Phichit added to it.

**[15:20] Katsudon: Phichit says thank you for always using his playlist**

**[15:24] Yuri: he needs to listen to the red hot chili peppers**

**[15:25] Katsudon: Haha, okay, I’ll tell him**

**[15:25] Yuri: and delete 5sos for fucks sake**

Phichit did not, in fact, delete the 5 Seconds of Summer song, but he did add “Dani California” not long after Yuri’s suggestion.

Yuri took things step by step, keeping his head down for once in his life, working tirelessly hour after hour to achieve what he so desperately longed to achieve. When Yakov told him to run, he put his earbuds in and ran. When Yakov told him to skate, he stepped onto the ice with determination. When Yakov told him to go find Lilia because he was getting sloppy again, he gritted his teeth and went to Lilia and endured hours of grueling practice under her watchful eye.

When Victor told Yuri to try to immerse himself more, Yuri chanted to himself, _get over it, get over, get over it,_ over and over like a mantra. He forced himself to _get over it,_ he skated his routine, he didn’t think about technicalities or being safe. When Mila advised him on his flying sit spin, he watched her demo carefully and then replicated it to the best of his ability, remembering the little details like the angle his arm was bent at and how close he was to the ice.

For too long, he had allowed his own insecurities to stop him from improving.

He didn’t allow himself to think about it and instead dove headfirst into improvement, because he would worry about it later.

_But what about the people staring? They’re watching. The harder you try, the more embarrassing it is to fall – remember, remember…_

No, thought Yuri firmly, he would _not think about that now_ , not now, not now. He threw all of his thoughts into performing a perfect Biellmann. _Just hang on a little longer._

Victor, for all his cheeriness and inspiring skating, was not a big help. He gave Yuri tips sometimes that helped, more or less, but his overall attitude was patronizing. The more Yuri listened to him, the more he realized that Victor had always been this way – always arrogant, always at the top of the world, always imposing, always invading. He was like a whirlwind, barreling through without a care in the world.

It wasn’t always a good thing. Yuri had always known this, somewhere deep down inside, but now he was starting to think about it, reflect on it, realize something about it. It wasn’t always a good thing.

Had Victor never inserted himself into Yuri’s life, their relationship would surely be very different; Yuri would likely never have reached out and they wouldn’t be “brothers” or anything closer than casual rinkmates. Yuri though that Victor was great – he was the living legend, he was a genius, he was talented and handsome and the media loved him. He had a huge fanbase, so that counted for something, probably.

He was confident and he didn’t care what other people thought and he was always _doing something,_ always active, never stagnant.

Yuri admired him for all of that.

The point, however, was that Victor was no longer so active, no longer so admirable. He was losing his motivation and even if the world was blind to it, Yuri certainly was not. He hated it. He hated seeing his idol fall, hated seeing an angel slowly descend back to Earth as all humans did, eventually, without so much as a loud noise to signal his arrival.

_This is the way the world ends – not with a bang but a whimper._

Yuri ground himself in reality, put his head down, and drove forward. What use was there looking for a star when it was no longer there?

***

“Oh,” said Yuuri, looking a little guilty when Yuri next talked to him on Skype. “Uh, I haven’t been… I mean, I’ve been practicing a lot, yeah. Not much else.”

Yuri raised one eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri affirmed, trying to look confident in his answer, but Yuri could tell something else was up. He sighed, knowing it was probably nothing more than spending all his time texting Victor. “A-Anyway, Victor says you’ve been working hard.”

“Of course he has,” said Yuri without really thinking about it, his answer holding no personal meaning whatsoever. But Yuuri seemed to think something else of it, prompting a sheepish response from the Japanese man.

“All good things!” Yuuri hurried to say. “He says your step sequences are going to be better than his, soon.”

Yuri chose his words very carefully, piecing them together like a mathematical formula. “I’m sure they will, if he never works on them.”

“And your PCS will be great, I’m sure. I can’t wait for your senior debut next year, when you finally compete against Victor!”

“I’ll beat him next year. You’ll see.”

Yuuri took this as nothing more but a childish response and laughed. “I’m sure you will, Yura. Keep working at it!”

Working at _what?_ Beating Victor? How was that possible when Victor might not even skate next year?

What a let-down. What a shame.

Yuri liked the way Yuuri played the piano, of course. It was magical. He made music with his entire body and it was expansive, filling the hall, making itself known as it told a story. Yuuri’s inspirations were probably people like Rubenstein and Barenboim and even the harsher Ashkenazy – maybe Zimmerman, maybe not – who interpreted Chopin in a softer way and played them the way Yuuri liked.

He wondered where Victor went for inspiration – Cao Bin? Yuzuru Hanyu? Stephane Lambiel? Was it harder to find inspiration when you were at the top of the world? The reigning king? When it was your role to inspire the younger generation?

What kept you going?

He wondered if Victor even knew.

_Without inspiration, you might as well be dead._

He wondered if Victor would find it one day and return to skating with vigor, passion, and fire. He wondered if Victor would be too old to compete by then, or if he would find it in the next few months at this crucial point in time – was it possible? Was it too much to hope for?

“What are you thinking about?” asked Yuuri, noticing Yuri’s silence. “If you’re worried about the competition, don’t – “

“I’m not,” Yuri interrupted before thinking it over. Yuuri, mouth still open, paused and looked confused. Yuri scrambled for something to say that wasn’t overly mushy or out of character. “I’m still in the Juniors’, remember?”

Yuuri agreed and went on to say something about Phichit, his roommate, who had a 24/7 online presence and three hamsters that liked to chew on Yuuri’s music when left unsupervised. Yuri liked Phichit because he posted a lot of pictures about Yuuri’s life, updating him (and the world) when Yuuri didn’t (which was essentially always).

Yuri hated being ordered around, but he was used to it. He wasn’t a good leader. He didn’t like being in the spotlight. He didn’t want to stand on the podium alone next year when he finally entered Seniors’, smiling for the cameras and longing for a familiar presence at his side.

Wasn’t the spotlight meant for Victor, the greedy pig?

Wasn’t it?

“Vitya, look alive!” yelled Yakov the next morning, just as angry and frustrated as usual. Yuri stopped practicing spins to look over to where Victor was practicing one of his step sequences. It wasn’t sloppy, but it certainly wasn’t tight. Yuri thought about it carefully and then yelled,

“Your age is showing! I see your bald spot!”

Victor pretended to be heartbroken (“Why, Yura? Why must you say such hurtful things?”) and then waved off Yakov’s lecture and returned to practicing. There was no immediate difference. Was there supposed to be? What was Yuri expecting?

“No quads,” Yakov told him sternly an hour later, and Yuri wanted to argue but bit his tongue, remembering his rule for now about listening to people. So he stayed away from quads – even his beloved Salchow – and worked on doubles and triples instead, spinning through the air with practiced balance and momentum.

“What’s with this change in attitude, hm?” Mila hummed, throwing an arm around him casually. Yuri shrugged it off. “Vitya could learn a thing or two from you.”

“Fuck yeah he could,” said Yuri, lost for anything else to say. “He has, like, no motivation to do anything, the old fart.”

Mila turned serious all of a sudden. “He’s getting kind of old, you know. Everyone’s speculating about his retirement.”

“Fuck that.”

“It’s not really safe to push him past his prime, either. We all look up to him, but he’s human, too.”

Yuri knew that. Did everyone think he was some immature kid with no sensibility? He grunted. “He’s still doing the quad flip in the first half. It’s fucking stupid. Everyone knows he can do that.”

“Yura, are you even listening to me?” asked Mila, a little exasperated. “I _just_ said – “

“He’s still skating, isn’t he?” said Yuri, enveloped by a sudden rage. “He’s still on the fucking ice, so don’t treat him like some fucking screw-up! He’s _Victor Nikiforov._ If he’s going to skate, he’d better fucking do it _right_!”

“Yura, you can’t just – “

“Look,” said Yuri impatiently, “If he wants to retire, then he can just retire. He can skate for fun, do some coaching, some choreography, see if anyone wants to hire him, whatever. But he’s not. He’s trying to compete. What’s the point in competing if he never tries to beat himself? What’s he competing for? More gold medals? Does he want to stare at his trophy collection on lonely nights and bask in his own glory?”

“Does he?” said Mila, suddenly sounding a lot like Yuuri – even more so than usual. “Is that what you think, Yura?”

“How am I supposed to know? His narcissism – _ugh,_ not the point. My _point_ is that if he’s going to do it, he’d better do it for a good purpose.”

Mila was quiet for a moment, her eyes narrowed and calculating. Yuri, slightly afraid of what she would say next, tried to sound as confident as usual as he demanded,

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “You just… You seem so grown-up now. I guess I just never really noticed.”

Yuri, to avoid awkwardness, just rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

He continued drilling his programs carefully, listening to verified sources like Yakov and Victor and Mila and sometimes Georgi and sometimes the assistant coaches at the rink, and he spent hours in Lilia’s studio under her hawk-like eye. His muscles burned. It felt good. It felt like he was doing something, accomplishing something.

He practiced his programs for Yakov and the others when they stayed to watch, dancing across the ice with a sort of fluidity he hadn’t had before. He envisioned Yuuri’s performance months earlier, fingers dancing across the keys and his entire body making music that created emotions and feelings and visions.

And for once in his life, he was proud. _Look at me,_ he thought, demanding Victor’s attention. _Look at me go. You won’t even try to challenge me? What if I become good enough to beat you?_

Victor laughed and clapped Yuri on the shoulder one night, the week before the Final. “You’ve done some good work,” he said, smiling, but Yuri had gone through this too many times to be fooled. Victor was drowning in his own thoughts, in his own depression.

“I’ll beat you,” said Yuri determinedly, meeting Victor’s eyes with as much raw determination as he could. “Just you wait.”

“Really?” Victor still sounded patronizing, like an adult talking to a child. Yuri curled his lip into a cold sneer.

“ _Just you wait, Vitya.”_


End file.
